Two Way Street
by Stealth Dragon
Summary: “Survival, Sheppard. It's all about survival...” Team fic, team whump.
1. Part 1

**Two Way Street**

By

Stealth Dragon

Rating – T, violence, abuse, mentions of attempted non-consensual.

Disclaimer – I do not own Stargate Atlantis. I own some cats, dogs, birds, a rabbit and a few chickens, but nothing Stargate.

Synopsis – "Survival, Sheppard. It's all about survival..." Team fic and (gasp!) team whump! That's right, SD is doing some team whump, with Shep and Rodney getting the brunt of it, since I've been wanting to a team centric fic for a while. Spoilers for various, random episodes so watch out. Takes place after Phantoms and way, way, way, before the Return, because I said so. No slash.

A/N: I wrote this story a long while back but only recently finished it. I have such trouble with endings. Promised fics such as the sequel to Heartbeat are in the works but going slow for the mentioned trouble I have with endings.

Part One

Hurt

You live, you learn, but that's only if you live. Sheppard lived more than he could count but wasn't sure if he had learned anything. Actually, that wasn't true. He learned how deep a human can succumb to evil, that wraith can have hearts, shoot a friend on accident and he'll never let you forget it, and being the biggest pain in the ass he could be actually had merit in saving lives.

For a time.

"Just blend in he says," Rodney panted. "Pretend to be like everyone else he says. We'll sneak off the first chance we get he says. How many days ago was that Colonel?"

John didn't say anything, just glower. He'd said his peace, over and over, each time Rodney had said his, and refused to keep playing that game. He also didn't have the breath to respond between slogging through a muddy road and ensuring Rodney remained upright and in motion.

"What else were we supposed to do?" Ronon growled from behind. He was both taking point at the rear and making sure no one decided to get frisky with the dazed, silent Teyla.

What were they supposed to do? After living three years in the Pegasus Galaxy it seemed rather mind boggling that there was actually a world at war with itself rather than the wraith (John suspected each side sicced the wraith on the other). Two countries duking it out over... Well John wasn't sure what. Their fellow prisoners of war had differing opinions on the matter. Some said land, some said riches, most said their captors were wraith worshippers, only to be challenged by the guards who said the prisoners were the wraith worshippers.

Sheppard's money was on two pissy leaders with more pride than what was healthy, and a century long family feud. This planet had a rather medieval feel, or would have if it hadn't been for the rifles, electric prods, and hypodermics full of drugs.

Sheppard hadn't known what was going on at the time when they'd stumbled onto the road after stepping through the gate. He hadn't known – and never would have fathomed in a million years - that the flood of people trudging over a mired road were prisoners on a death march rather than refugees left over from a culling. So John had seen no reason not to blend in for safety's sake, until Rodney got a prod to the back when his griping got too loud. That had been seven or eight days ago, give or take. John was losing count, Rodney was losing steam, Ronon patience, and Teyla was out of it after being drugged in an attempted rape. John had been drugged stopping it, but the supposed sedatives seemed to have the opposite effect on him. He didn't calm when the drug seared through his veins like acid. He'd been injected two days ago and still felt wired enough to take off at a run for all eternity and never drop.

Ronon was forced to play the good guard dog in order to keep himself from being drugged. Rodney had the theory that the effect was different only for those with the ATA gene, and John wanted Ronon lucid for when escape presented itself.

The day was cold, wet, overcast; like a dreary gray fall, days away from winter. Tall trees like pale pines and redwoods walled in the road dripping water accumulated from the constant drizzle. John's long-sleeved shirt stuck to his body, absorbing the cold like a dry sponge in water. They had left their weapons and tac vests to be less conspicuous. Ronon still had his plethora of hidden knives as their ace but John didn't want to have him whip them out until Teyla was lucid and John got enough food into Rodney to stave off the hypoglycemia. John's jacket had been taken when he wrestled the thugs off of Teyla, leaving him shivering in the wet chill.

They trudged on through the day and into the late night, not stopping until early morning to dine on stale crusts of bread and drink foggy water. John never ate his bread. He saved it for Rodney later in the day. The ever aware Ronon caught on to John's intent quick, and split his pathetic crust in two forcing Sheppard to eat the other half. John didn't argue against it. He hadn't had the heart to ask either Ronon or Teyla to share. Not out of pride, just out of the inability to do that to them. Starving to help Rodney wasn't a choice he was going to force on the others.

It took Rodney longer to catch on. Three days later, the next morning, he nagged John to just split the bread. Rodney didn't need a large portion, just enough to keep the hypoglycemia back.

Another day passed, making... Nine, ten? John knew he might as well give up counting. He wondered, in an exhausted haze, if rescue was around, searching and searching, one step behind for every step John's team took. Dirty, wet, bedraggled, they were blending in quite nicely with the crowd. And with a war making the terrain tricky to scale, John had to temper his hope concerning any sort of an immediate rescue.

Not that he was going to let the others hold back against hope. Ronon was realistic so John didn't even try with him. It was Teyla and Rodney who needed bolstering, Teyla especially. The drug should have worn off by now. John's nerves were no longer trying to writhe out of his body. Teyla, however, still had yet to say anything.

"They'll find us," John said as they hunkered down beneath a tree, eating bread, drinking water from the tin cups, and keeping close to stay warm. Teyla was between Ronon and John, with Rodney's jacket covering her. Rodney was leaning against John, panting heavily.

"When?" he rasped.

"When they find us," John replied, and lifted his shivering hands clutching the cup to gulp back the rest of his water. He tucked the remains of his bread into his mud-flecked BDUs.

Two more days of sloughing through the mud. On the second day, Rodney stumbled and fell nearly bringing John with him. John struggled hauling Rodney to his feet, but couldn't struggle fast enough. One of their _gracious_ hosts strode forward shouting at them to move, didn't wait for a reaction, and stuck a prod into Rodney's ribs. McKay screamed and dropped to the ground convulsing.

Fury ripped through John like a hurricane. "You son of a bitch!" he snarled, and lunged at the guard. The guard was bigger, heavily built, energized on better food and water. He caught John by the throat and slammed him to the ground. The big man planted his booted foot on John's chest to hold him down so he could whip out a needle and fill it full of the misty gray liquid from a small, metal bottle. The medieval looking man tapped the air bubbles from the syringe, then plunged it into the side of John's neck.

The stuff burned as it snaked through John's veins, and absorbed into his nerves fast. Sweat beaded his brow, and his heart hammered fit to explode. He could hardly breathe, fogging his brain with panic, doubling his rage to become the only emotion he knew. He roared out in his confusion and fury, and grabbed the man's ankle to yank the foot off his chest. The man dropped to the ground. John rolled to his chest, then into a crouch, and pounced, pounding the man's face with the intent of caving it in, screaming out his rage until his ribs constricted his lungs. Hands from all sides grabbed him to pull him away. His rage rose to a new level, and he kicked, writhed, screamed, even attempted to scratch and bite. He was thrust roughly to the pliable ground, only to scramble back up and lunge at whoever was closest. Fists rained down on him, so he rained back with his own fists that met flesh with a solid smack or satisfying crunch.

John was blind with rage and high on an adrenaline rush he had never felt before. He felt indestructible, didn't acknowledge the blows, didn't see the blood dripping from his face. He felt nothing but the heat of fury and the bass drum beat of his infuriated heart.

"Oh just shoot the lunatic!" someone shouted, distant, like a voice out of a dream.

"No! Let me go! I'll calm him. I'll calm him!" This voice a little louder, less like a dream and more like someone calling to him. John's arms were suddenly pinned to his sides. He snarled and roared in rage trying to buck, writhe, and kick his way free.

"Sheppard! Sheppard stop! Listen to me!"

John knew that voice, a voice that couldn't fuel his rage, and one that he knew better than not to listen to.

"Sheppard, calm down and listen. This won't help Rodney. This won't help any of us especially if you end up dead."

_Rodney..._ Rodney was hurt. He needed to check on Rodney. And Teyla, she wasn't well. This wasn't the time... Too soon...

John stopped struggling and cautiously went limp in the bigger man's arms. His heart jackhammered, his body thrummed with the need to react and he couldn't push his mind through the smothering haze that made the world tilt around him. He heard voices shouting in a ringing cacophony that throbbed nauseatingly against his eardrums. John closed his eyes in an attempt to shut out sight and fight against his rapid breathing.

"That shouldn't have happened," someone said, a male voice deep and rough.

"Something's wrong with him," said another.

"Just kill him," another.

"No, wait, this could come in handy..."

"Maybe we should try something else..."

"He'd make a good fighter. Put him in the circle for a few rounds. With that stuff in him, he can't lose..."

John was trembling uncontrollably, as though one quake-level away from a seizure.

"Sheppard?" Ronon's warm breath brushed against his ear. John nodded.

"I'm all right," he panted. "All right..." He needed to check on Rodney.

Ronon's hold remained for a moment, then gradually, hesitantly, loosened. John stumbled two steps and shook his head to clear it. He turned and stumbled drunkenly, body vibrating with so much energy it actually scared him. He dropped to his knees in the mud beside Rodney's huddled form and placed his hand on the shuddering man's shoulder. Rodney flinched with a quiet gasp, curled tighter, and shivered harder.

"Rodney?" John said. Rodney rolled his head to look up at John. The pain and shocked terror in Rodney's eyes was hard to look at. John swallowed.

"You all right?"

Rodney swallowed as well. "M-my side's killing me..." he chuckled, almost hysterically, "like a son of a bitch."

John smiled falteringly back. "As long as you're alive pal. Come on, I'll help you up."

John took Rodney's arm and slung it across his shoulders, and took Rodney's weight as he lifted the scientist to his feet. They started at a stagger forward, then soon resumed the walk, with Ronon beside them keeping a mute and distantly staring Teyla close. John felt a hand press into his back between the shoulder blades and give him a shove.

"You'll pay for what you did," a voice hissed behind him, "you scrawny little sack of filth."

John ran his tongue over his mouth inside and out catching the sour metallic tang of blood on the tip, and smiled.

Another day, and Teyla still hadn't spoken. She also wouldn't eat. The three men coaxed her, with John in a crouch, holding the bread out to her. His body shook with the drug that still permeated his system, wiring him to the point that every snap of a twig or abruptly loud voice made him start and tense at the ready. A guard walked by with a rifle in hand, and stopped to watch with a half-smirk as the three men tried to get the small woman to eat. Ronon looked at the man warningly, but John looked at him dangerously. He tensed, spine curved like a pissed tom cat, with every intent of charging if the guard so much as twitched one step closer. A light pat on his back made him flinch but never move.

"Easy boy. Be good and we all live a little longer," Rodney mumbled.

John smiled ferally and his body jerked with quiet snickering, but he never took his eyes from the potential interloper. John put his arm across Teyla's shoulders and pulled her to him protectively, shielding her from the guard's gaze while still presenting the bread to her.

The guard saw something in John's eyes he didn't like. The man's smile faltered, and he moved on.

John felt movement, and looked down as Teyla's shaking hand placed itself over the bread, then pull the bread away. She nibbled on it a little at a time with her head resting against John's chest. John released a breath of relief. He felt another gentle pat on his back from Rodney, and got a small smile from Ronon. John adjusted himself so he and Teyla could be more comfortable, but kept his eyes out toward the road, following whoever passed by – prisoner or guard.

Two more days, and the team had something new to worry about.

The circle – a spot of bare road marked by stones for the purpose of gambling through fights. The prize for the prisoner who won was extra rations. Ronon had been in a few ring fights, and naturally won. Now it was John's turn as he was literally dragged from sleep, injected with the serum, and tossed into the ring. There was no blind rage, only blind terror as he fought to defend himself. The fights weren't to the death (waste of good slave labor according to the guards) but if death happened it was no skin off the guards' teeth. John fought like an animal; pounding, kicking, even biting. His opponent was bigger but John was lithe and agile. He moved fast and suddenly, burning with both natural and chemically produced adrenaline.

His opponent dropped, and still John pounded away until he was pulled off. An armed guard ran into the circle and checked the opponent's pulse. He looked up, round eyed and pale.

"He's dead."

The announcement hit John like ice-water and he jolted. Dead? Who had died? John didn't recall why he'd been fighting, and his inability to completely remember scared him. He was dragged back to his friends huddled at the base of a wide-trunked tree with spongy pale bark, and dumped in front of them. John remained on his hands and knees staring at the mossy ground between the road and the tree. Something cold and wet touch his, so he instinctively snatched it back.

"Sheppard?"

John looked up at Rodney's pale face, into his sunken blue eyes. Rodney stared back at John hard, and reached out again, slowly, wrapping his fingers around John's wrist and tugging.

" What happened?" he asked. " You're covered in blood." He pulled John closer to them, despite the blood. He positioned John between himself and Teyla, who still wouldn't talk.

John shook his head. "I – I don't remember..." he stammered. He looked at Rodney, hoping for answers, but Rodney's only reply was a look of frightened bewilderment. So John looked at Ronon. Ronon's gaze was fierce, angry, and it made John cringe. Then the runner's gaze softened, and he shook his head.

" Self-defense," he rumbled. " That's all you need to know."

Yeah right. It happened again the next day. Fighting, blindly, lashing out with everything he had until he was once again pulled away. This time no one died. His opponent had fallen to his hands and knees, and that's when those watching ended the fight. John was brought back to his friends. Ronon looked pissed, but Rodney looked afraid, and that made John afraid.

"What did I do?" he begged. He honestly couldn't remember, except that there had been blood, and blood usually accompanied death.

Ronon just shook his head. " Doesn't matter. Don't worry about it."

John, shivering and panting, saliva and blood flying from his mouth in thin threads, shook his head. " No... No... I – I did something..."

Ronon gave John a cold look that could have withered the trees around them, but did make Rodney shrink away.

"It – does – not – matter," Ronon enunciated low and dangerous.

John didn't care. He was tired of this haze, of the violence and the pain that came out of nowhere leaving him shaken and painted in blood. John Sheppard killed when he had to and knew what he was doing when he did. The act became a separate part of him when it was a necessity - an alter ego, a tool - and after all was said and done he was able to detach it from himself and shut it away for future need.

He needed to know if he was killing for a purpose. Saving a life? Then whose life? He needed to know so he could shut it away. He never killed – never hurt – unless he had no other choice, and that was the only time.

John dug his fingers into the mud like claws sinking into flesh. The mud oozed between his fingers, cold and pliable, until his fingers curled inward for the nails to bite into his palm.

"What did I do!" he roared sending crimson flecks of foam spraying from his mouth. Now it was John Rodney was cringing away from, Teyla with him without looking at John. Sheppard recoiled back in alarm at their reactions, and realized his stance was in an attack position, with back curved and everything, ready to pounce. John eased back onto his haunches and wrapped his arms around his knees to come across as harmless as possible, then looked away.

"Never mind," he muttered. If Rodney and Teyla were afraid of him, then obviously he'd done something wrong.

"You did what you had to do, Sheppard," Ronon said. John looked over at him.

"Which was?" he challenged.

Ronon shrugged. "Live so we can get out of here."

John supposed that was good enough. It had to be since he knew for a fact Ronon wasn't going to expand on the matter any further.

It was Ronon who next reached out taking John by the wrist and gently tugging to pull Sheppard toward them. But Sheppard steered himself to sit on Ronon's other side, away from Teyla and McKay. He didn't want to be near them with the way he was feeling, not after scaring the hell out of them. He leaned forward enough to look at Teyla. Her head was turned away staring beyond everything with eyes of glass. They still had to prod and coax her to eat.

She was a strong woman. Even as she was now, John would never think otherwise. She just needed time, that was all. They'd gotten to her in time, before the men had proceeded on to the unspeakable. Problem was, they hadn't arrived to stop the violation before it began. Violation not by one, but by five. Sex hadn't been forced on her, but beneath Rodney's jacket nothing remained of Teyla's shirt.

John's blood resumed burning with rage, rising like lava, until Ronon's heavy hand planted itself on his shoulder to snap him from it.

"Not yet," he whispered.

John was starting to wonder when 'yet' would come. Guards were everywhere, and if not guards then desperate prisoners willing to snitch for a little more bread. Breaks were once a day and short lived, and the last guy who tried to take off into the night was last heard yelping after the crack of rifle fire deep in the woods.

This wasn't their world. Hard as Sheppard had tried, he no longer knew the direction to the 'gate.

All they had to hang onto was a rescue that had no idea where the hell to find them. Maybe the Daedalus, but that had still been weeks away from arriving.

Three more days came and went, with no fights after that. The road curved, and the forest opened into a small green valley surrounded by storm gray mountains capped in white nearly to the base. There was a massively long hill bisecting the valley where people moved like ants over its grassy surface. Within the valley were tents of soiled white cloth, and at the top of the hill was what looked to be a wall of stones in the throes of being constructed.

Fortification. Hills were always strategic locations – the high ground – and having a defensive wall only made it better. Sheppard vaguely surmised that beyond the mountains was something important, perhaps a city or the capital. Either that, or there was a plan to bring a battle here for the sake of reducing a crap-load of the enemy's number.

John was thinking all this just to be thinking about something other than his racing heart and nerve-shattering agitation. The serum was acting even more deliberate about being metabolized.

The prisoners were hustled down into the valley toward the base of the hill where the tents were scattered. The guards called for a halt ten feet from the tents. A tall, bald man dressed in leather and furs strolled purposefully toward the mass of exhausted trekkers followed by several burly, leather and fur-clad escorts. The man stopped five feet from the gathered.

"Here it is then," he called. "You wish to live, then you work. You take the stones brought in from the quarry and add them to the wall. Refuse to work, try to escape, and death will come slowly and painfully... Mostly to any loved ones or friends that happen to be with you, then to you should your lesson not be learned. Now get to work. You eat when evening comes."

That said, the task-master strolled away back to the tents. A guard bellowed and the prisoners were escorted around the encampment to the hill where piles of rocks waited to be hauled up the side.

Rodney groaned. "This is gonna suck."

John shrugged and attempted a weak smile, clasping Rodney on the shoulder. "Just... think of all the exercise you'll be getting."

Rodney's head turned slowly to regard Sheppard as though he'd sprouted two heads. "This is really _not_ the time to attempt the positive, Sheppard."

John gave Rodney a helpless look. Damned if the genius wasn't right.

John and Ronon made sure to seek out the smaller rocks for Rodney and Teyla to carry. They trudged up the hill with the rocks, and half-walked/half slid back down without. It was no different than trudging through the mud, at least to John it wasn't. Rodney begged to differ. He was the first to start stumbling and falling, sliding back down, which earned him too many prods to count. John finally resorted to hauling both rocks and Rodney up by hooking one arm through Rodney's and yanking him up whenever he started to fall. Ronon caught on fast, and changed places with John when John started to falter. Teyla moved mechanically and never faltered.

Strong, no matter her state of mind.

By midday, or what John guessed to be midday, he was no longer cold. In fact, if it wasn't for the chilled breezes, he would have forgotten it was verging on winter here. On their return trip to the pile, John removed his shirt and tied the arms of it around his waist. He was about to bend to pick up another rock when he noticed Rodney staring at him, wide-eyed, blanching, and just a little melancholy.

John looked down at his own body, at the mess of bruises, blindingly red scabbing cuts, and protruding ribs. John was somewhat shocked himself.

"When the hell did that happen?" he said, going for light, then shrugged like it was no big deal - because it wasn't - and lifted another rock.

Ronon had gone shirtless a little while before John. The man's muscle tone hadn't changed but there was a bit more visibility of bone. Rodney refused to go shirtless, not matter how much he sweat or how the shirt was probably chafing him.

"You'll feel better, Rodney," John tried to cajole.

Rodney's breath was ragged and heavy as he lugged the rock up with John pulling him along. "Yeah..." he panted. "Somehow I doubt that."

"I think we're a little beyond trying to scrounge for dignity," John countered.

"Doesn't mean I can't try."

If Rodney was trying to hide the changes beneath his clothes, he was failing miserably. His shirt was hanging from him - his shirt had never hung from him – and his shoulders were looking a little sharp under the fading material.

Stone grated against stone as they piled them onto the wall, smashing fingers, nicking them, scraping their palms. The next time Rodney fell, it was right on his knee, and his outcry of pain clapped through the valley like a gunshot. John's heart shot into his throat when a guard stomped toward them. He he pulled Rodney to his feet and half-dragged him up the hill before the man and his shock-stick could get to them. Once at the top, Rodney deposited his burden and leaned onto the wall gasping for every molecule of oxygen as though it were water.

"I – I – I can't... Can't do this..." he gasped. John clasped him on the back while keeping his sights fixed as best he could on every stick brandishing bruiser in their vicinity.

"Sure you can, McKay. Mind over matter. Just try not to think about it and you'll make it 'til nightfall."

McKay shook his beet-red head. " No... Bunch of... unproven... _crap. _Freakin'... Joke. I can't..."

John's lip pulled back from his teeth when he saw a bruiser approach from the other side. He pulled his gaze away and leaned in to Rodney's ear.

"You can and you will, McKay," he hissed. "You can do this, you've been doing this, and I'll keep helping you. Just don't give up now."

" Why? What's the... Point?"

John pulled Rodney away from the wall and hustled him back down the drizzle-slick hill. "There's always a point McKay. You survived being underwater and on a damn hive ship. Are you seriously going to tell me that you're going to let some damn hill defeat you? No way McKay. Like I'm letting you lose to some stupid landscape feature."

"If we survive this," McKay wheezed, " and I ever have to climb another hill again... I'm taking your _precious_ C-4 and blowing it to hell."

John smiled and laughed softly. "That's the spirit, McKay."

"Shut... Up..."

Nightfall came early but the work dragged on until a trumpet blared, followed by voices shouting for everyone to pretty much drop what they were doing and gather at the base of the hill to receive their rations. Every intake of breath scraped John's trachea raw. He dragged his weary body along with McKay's even more weary body back down the hill. Ronon alongside Teyla veered toward them, and they managed to sit together when they reached the bottom. They sat Indian style shoulder to shoulder, touching elbows or knees to elbows or knees. Ronon had one arm draped over Teyla's shoulders feigning her as his 'property' to keep the ones leering in her direction at bay.

He didn't look happy about it, and Teyla seemed not to notice any of it.

Bowls were passed down, and a thin porridge ladled into them by a man in greasy clothes and with a bulging gut lugging along a black kettle pot. The tin cups came next, and the cook's twiggy assistant limping down the line ladling water from a bucket. Sheppard wasn't too sure about this arrangement, until a third assistant – short and squat – hobbled along the line tossing everyone a small chunk of bread. This John liked, and he slipped his portion into Rodney's pocket.

They were silent as they drank their dinner, except to urge Teyla now and then to eat her own. When John finished, he followed the lead of his fellow prisoners and tossed the bowl in front of him to be picked up later. When the bowls were retrieved, the prisoners were ordered to sleep where they sat. John moved to have Rodney and Teyla between himself and Ronon. He tugged his shirt back on and scooted closer to Rodney.

"Suck it up, McKay," he said. " It's the only way we're going to stay warm."

Rodney curled his lip in displeasure but kept his mouth shut. John couldn't hold back a small grimace of his own. He didn't bristle about the whole touchy/feely thing like McKay, yet neither did he tolerate it all that well.

The team packed in and lay on the ground, back to back or arm to arm, whichever way their stirring, restless, shivering attempt at sleep pointed them. The moist grass took its sweet time about warming – barely – leaving John's other flank open to the assault of the icy breezes. He felt Rodney shivering against his back, and heard his shuddering inhales and exhales. John stared into the overcast sky like the black ceiling of a light-less dungeon.

_Ah, crap, let them please find us,_ he begged to no one in particular, or to whoever was listening. There were times he didn't want to believe that someone was listening, and times he couldn't help but wonder if there was. He'd survived a wraith feeding, for crying out loud – and was still young. That said something, meant something, he just wasn't sure what. That someone was listening, watching, caring, whatever? It was getting harder and harder to doubt. Even here and now because of everything else that came before.

_I blame the Maker and he still doesn't hate me. _John gritted his teeth to keep the laughter trapped in his chest from bubbling up and out. In what was an official darkest hour, he was starting to crack and show some faith. Wouldn't Rodney just love that.

_So bring on the miracles._ John wouldn't call himself reborn or anything, it just didn't hurt to ask for a little help now and then.

Morning came so fast it seemed unnatural, or maybe nights were as short as days on this world. John started awake to the blaring of a trumpet that sounded like a dying sheep, and lifted his heavy head on a stiff neck off the ground. People moaned, groaned, and yawned all around him. John struggled against stiffened muscles and aching joints into a sitting position. He had to help Rodney, who uttered broken cries of pain when he forced his overtaxed muscles to do as they were told. Rodney leaned heavily against John as the bowls were handed down and porridge slopped out. Water came next, and John barely got halfway through both when the trumpet sounded again and the foreman shouted viciously for everyone to get to work.

Up the hill and down the hill, with Sheppard doing twice the work as he aided an aching, already exhausted Rodney. There was a brief respite during the middle of the day in which bread was handed out. Water was made available in communal buckets at the bottom of the hill. Later in the day, when Rodney's hypoglycemia tried to rear its ugly head, John pulled the bread from Rodney's pocket and forced him to eat it fast as they staggered down the hill.

The next day, Rodney could barely move, he was so stiff, and John could barely help him. He didn't notice when Rodney's arm slipped away from his, or see Rodney stumble back and fall to go rolling down the hill. It was the cry of pain that got John to whirl around in time to witness a guard kick Rodney in the back and jab the business end of the electric stick into the physicist's side. Rodney's back arched off the ground and his mouth opened wide to release a gutteral cry.

"No!" John screamed. He dropped his rock and ran down the hill dropping to his knees by Rodney's side. He knocked the prod away, and draped himself over Rodney shielding the scientist's body with his own.

"Leave him alone!" John snarled, seething, glaring, wishing death-stares weren't just a metaphor.

The guard was indifferent. Actually, he looked bored. He placed one calloused, dirty hand on his hip, and tapped his thigh with the stick.

"Get off," the guard said.

John pulled Rodney closer to him, and shook his head. "No."

The guard looked up and waved someone over. Seconds later – burning agony. John arched back with a bellow of pain at the electric fire ripping through his spine radiating from the point where a prod met the flesh of his bare back.

" Get off!" the guard sneered. The fire ended, and John fell limply forward over Rodney.

Again, John shook his head no.

The man rolled his eyes. " Oh for..." then nodded.

John wasn't met with another surge of electricity tearing through him, he was met with a hard blow across his shoulders, _then_ electricity.

" _Get off_!" The big bad guard with the big bad stick was getting mad. John almost laughed out loud, but bit it back in favor of avoiding future electronically induced seizures.

Another blow, then another, lower this time, and sharper. John could have sworn he heard something crack. Following that came the electricity that turned the pain from a throb to a body-wide riot. John screamed, arching, but never relented his protection over Rodney. Unfortunately it didn't matter. The pain had debilitated him enough to be pulled away no matter how he kicked and struggled. The bruiser over Rodney shocked and shocked again, over and over until Rodney had no breath left to scream and his body twitched and squirmed in absolute agony. The guard kicked Rodney a good one in the chest, sniffed, jerked his shoulders to adjust his coat, and walked away. The man holding John released him by shoving him to the ground.

John scrambled on hands and knees to Rodney.

"McKay?" John's heart raced with panic and from the lingering affects of getting shocked. His hands shook as he took the hem of Rodney's shirt and lifted it. Bile rose burning into the back of John's throat. Rodney's body was splotched with bruises like continents on a white ocean, and dotted in perfectly round burns from the sticks.

"Son of a..." Sheppard breathed. He lowered Rodney's shirt and rolled the man onto his back. Rodney's face was colorless, and pinched in pain. John gently patted both of McKay's cheeks.

"Come on, Rodney, open your eyes. You need to get up before Attila and his cattle prod get their second wind."

Rodney's head rocked from side to side with breaths exhaling on a whimper.

"Yes, Rodney, come on. It's over, you can open your eyes now."

"It'll never be over," Rodney breathed on a sob.

John's chest constricted leaking into his throat, making it momentarily hard to breathe. "Y-yes it will. Come on Rodney, you've gotta get up before they come back, please."

John was scared, and without realizing it had conveyed that fear through voice. It worked though, in it's own way. Rodney's eyes blinked open to stare at John and reflect his fear. Rodney's breathing increased, and his hands reached up scrambling over John's bare, filthy, sweat slicked shoulders.

" Help.. Help me up," he begged. John grabbed both of Rodney's arms and yanked him to his feet. Rodney stumbled and nearly fell. John, however, kept hold of his arms until the normally petulant man found his footing.

John ducked to look into Rodney's face. "All right?"

Rodney nodded and gulped. "Yeah... yeah, I will be."

John nodded back, and together they headed on down the hill to retrieve more rocks.

Night came, and with it the longer, more blessed respite.

John slipped his bread into McKay's pocket. In between drinking his own porridge, he joined with Ronon to get Teyla to drink her own.

"That's him, that's the one."

John snapped his head up to see the tall, bald-headed task-master moving toward them, flanked by his muscled entourage, and led by a guard John didn't recognize what with the man's hood being up. John stiffened, setting down his bowl and scooting slightly forward to have Teyla and Rodney behind him. Ronon mirrored the action.

"Those two, actually," the hooded man sad. " Took me the whole night to find them, but they're the ones you want."

Cue-ball nodded, rubbing his jaw. "Right then. Bring 'em to the ring."

John's heart slammed against his sternum. "Oh no."

The muscled entourage surged forward to grab both Ronon and John.

"Rodney!" John called as the larger men dragged him away. "Rodney, watch Teyla!"

The last thing he saw before a tent blocked his view was Rodney scooting closer to Teyla. John and Ronon were shoved and prodded along toward what was relatively the center of the encampment and a clearing where a large ring of stones had been set up. They were brought to a stop outside the ring and before an audience of guards leaning on their weapons, against rifle racks, or eachother's shoulders. Cue-ball stepped around the men holding John and Ronon. With a nod of his bald head, John's shirt was forceably removed, and Ronon's followed after. Cue-ball looked both men over, lingering on Ronon, then chuckling as he studied Sheppard.

The task-master gestured at John. " Him? He's been your champion? You can't be serious. I can see every bone in the man's body."

The hooded guard pulled a syringe from his pocket, uncapped it, and filled it from the small metal bottle produced out of his other pocket. "I'll grant he needs a little incentive," hoody said. He grabbed John by the hair tilting his neck to the side, and stabbed the needle into a vein. "But I assure you, this man is quite the vicious little brute. A real animal. You saw the bruises on half the boys. We were almost forced to shoot him."

The serum burned, and John's heart thundered faster and faster like a stampede of wild horses. He was shoved into the ring along with Ronon, and the audience lifted their weapons to shake while hooting, whistling, and shouting cat-calls.

"The skinny one's dead," someone shouted as though it were a matter of fact.

"They're right."

John whipped his head in Ronon's direction. The Satedan was staring at him, and it was a stare John couldn't fathom through the haze slowly slicking his mind. It looked almost like... Resolve; peaceful resolve?

"I can handle whatever you throw at me, Sheppard," Ronon said. "I'll live, so don't worry about anything else."

John began trembling. The haze wasn't thick enough yet for John not to understand what the former runner was getting at. John shook his head.

"No. Ronon, you don't know what this stuff does to me, you can't..."

Ronon cut him off by charging him and slugging him across the face. John was snapped sideways and stumbled back until he fell to his knees. He shook his head trying to clear it. Instead, the haze thickened, voices became muffled echoes and the world tilted beyond his control. He felt an impact to his side, not hard, just enough to topple him. Instinct took over where common sense had no place, and John swept his legs in an arch until they connected. He heard a thud and a grunt, and looked up to see Ronon on his back. John pushed himself to his feet in panic and hurried over to the runner.

"Ronon?"

Ronon leaped to his feet and slugged John again, and again, driving him back until the haze darkened and John struck back without realizing. He didn't know what was going on, couldn't recall why Ronon was attacking him, so fell to natural reactions and fought back. He slugged Ronon over and over, crying out his fear and confusion each time his fist met flesh and bone. Ronon went with the punches then finally blocked the blows with his wrists. Ronon shoved John back, but John didn't go far when he rushed Ronon and tackled him to the ground. John reached for Ronon's throat, so Ronon grabbed both his wrists holding him back. Even doped up on the serum, Ronon was still stronger.

John curled his fingers into fists. This was Ronon. He was hurting Ronon, and John couldn't remember why. He tried to pull away except Ronon wouldn't let him.

" Keep it up, Sheppard," he said.

John struggled trying to extract his arms from Ronon's vice grip. " Why? Why... What's going on... Ronon, what the hell!" He was terrified. He wanted to break free and run before he... or Ronon, he wasn't sure... Did something they would regret.

Ronon rocked from side to side until enough momentum had gathered for him to roll so that he was on top and John was underneath. He placed his knee on Sheppard's thin chest without applying pressure, and kept a good hold on Sheppard's wrists.

"Hit me," Ronon urged. "Hard as you can." He released Sheppard's arms. Sheppard just stared at him in horror.

"What? Why?"

"Do it, Sheppard," Ronon growled, then smiled flashing blood-flecked teeth. " You trust me, right?"

John nodded.

"Then hit me."

So John balled his fist and struck as hard as he could. Ronon grunted, then grunted again when he fell to his side and remained where he was, motionless. John rolled to his knees and crawled closer to Ronon. The runner's eyes were open, blinking drunkenly as he tried to clear his head. John reached out a trembling hand placing it on Ronon's shoulder.

"Ronon?"

A small, twitchy smile curled the Satedan's lips, and his chest heaved in a quiet chuckle. "Good hit, Sheppard," he said. "Think you knocked a few teeth lose."

John shook his head. He didn't get what was so funny, and couldn't remember why he'd hit Ronon. He didn't have time to ask when he was pulled away form his friend to be dumped unceremoniously outside the circle. Guards swarmed around Ronon in a crouch, pointing at him, feeling him over, and generally discussing him like he was a piece of beef about to be bought. John attempted to move back to Ronon only to be grabbed and restrained. John pulled against the ones holding him back, then stepped it up to struggling.

"What are you doing, leave him alone!" John screamed. Struggling escalated to frantic until he spun around and decked the one holding him. Guards descended on him from all sides to grab him and bring him to the ground snarling, clawing, even biting whatever hand got too close to his mouth. He heard laughter, and looked up to see cue-ball standing over him with arms folded, looking down.

"I like this fellow." The task master folded his legs in a squat. He rubbed his jaw, then reached out to press his fingers to the side of John's throat over the pulse-point. "He's got energy to spare. Let's keep him on the serum, see if that steps up his productivity. Know why the serum does this to him?"

The hooded man shook his head. "No Master Vranum."

Vranum nodded and chewed his lip. "Too bad. It's very handy in him. Take them back, let them rest." Vranum said. He stood and walked away. John was pulled to his feet, still restrained, and saw Ronon being pulled to his feet. Both men were given their shirts and man-handled back to where Rodney and Teyla huddled. Rodney straightened when Ronon and John were dumped down in front of him.

"What happened? You guys all right? Where'd they take you? Why are you covered in blood?" Rodney reached out toward John. The moment his fingertips met his arm, John flinched back and turned to Ronon.

"Ronon? What...? What did I do? I can't... I don't remember." All he did remember was fighting Ronon, not why. Ronon pulled his shirt over his head sneering to hide a grimace of pain. When he finished, he crawled over toward John. John shrank away and scuttled back. Ronon stopped, sat back, and held up both hands. With one hand, he reached out deliberately and took John's shirt. He bunched it around the neck, and with the same methodical – gentle - caution, placed it over John's head.

"You did what I asked you to do," he said. " If I won, they would have killed you. You win, you still have a use, and I still have a use. Survival, Sheppard. It's all about survival, so don't worry about anything else. Now get dressed before you freeze."

John shakily tugged his shirt the rest of the way over his body. Ronon looked him over darkly, making John nervous.

"You all right?" the runner asked.

John swallowed and tried to asses how he felt; the throbbing aches, sharp pains, and an oil-slick film over his mind that wouldn't let him think straight. His heart wouldn't stop pounding, he wouldn't stop shaking, and his skin felt like it was trying to crawl off his bones.

John twitched his head. " I... I don't know. I don't know."

Ronon stared at John for a little while longer. He then reached out wrapping his fingers around John's upper arm. Ronon tugged on that arm until John finally relented into scooting closer and becoming a part of the huddle for warmth.

The next morning, John paid little attention to the work, and more to the guards spread throughout the hill. He pulled Rodney along, never letting him fall, and when he stumbled made sure to straighten him out before any of the guards noticed. More serum had been shoved into John's veins until his body hummed with an energy that frightened him. Moving fast and moving constantly with McKay in tow kept him from giving in to the inexplicable desire to run -even if it was just to run in circles until he collapsed. He wasn't just getting sick of this energy, he hated it. It was too much for one body to take, especially a body that was supposed to be collapsing from exhaustion by now.

"S-slow... Slow down..." Rodney gasped

John complied though it made his muscles twitch in agitation. He looked over at Rodney who was fighting just to keep his legs straight and breathe without gasping like a dying fish. It made John's heart clench in terror. Rodney wasn't doing well. He wasn't going to make it. They needed to get out of here...

"Hey you!"

John snapped his head around to the bearded guard slapping his prod into the palm of his hand. "Just dump him. He's dead weight and slowing you down. You need to pick up the pace..."

John dropped his rock to ball his fists, and bared his teeth clenching them in a rising flood of rage.

"Back off!" He growled, taking a step toward the guard that was eying Rodney like the dead weight he claimed him to be. The guard went rigid and took a step back with prod tight in his grip.

"Now just calm yourself there, boy. There's to be no trouble..."

"Then shut up and leave us alone!" John gripped Rodney's arm tight and pulled him, dragging him, up the hill though neither still carried their rocks. Rodney slumped over the wall with each breath a rattling effort in its course. John, rocking back and forth from foot to foot, alternately rubbed and patted Rodney's shoulder.

"It's all right it's all right it's good they won't do anything it's all right..."

Rodney's head rolled in John's direction, and bloodshot eyes rolled up to look at him. "No it's not," he rasped. "I can't do this for much longer and you... That serum's screwing you up."

John shivered from more than just the cold brushing his bare, filthy skin. He nodded convulsively. " I know, I know, I know... It, uh... It doesn't feel right, McKay, I don't feel right. But they won't hurt you, any of you, I promise, I won't let them, it's all right..."

Rodney sighed, a defeated sound, and reached up with a trembling hand to place on John's sharp, naked shoulder. "What about you?"

John's eyes wouldn't stop darting around to the guards that were watching them like vultures waiting for death. "Huh? Me?"

"They're hurting you, John."

John flinched at McKay's use of his first name.

"I'm fine... um... Fine."

McKay lifted his tired body resting his weight on his shaking arms. "Bull. You just said you weren't fine."

"I will be."

McKay shook his head. "Not if we stay here much longer." His hand slid across John's shoulder to his neck, where his fingers pressed against the pulse point. "If your heart goes any faster, it's going to explode. This isn't natural Sheppard. And it's only a matter of time before one of us drops."

John cringed, ever so slightly. "What am I supposed to do about it?" No sarcasm laced that question. He honestly wanted to know. He was scared, terrified, with every beat of his slamming heart. It was a fear so strong it betrayed itself on John's features. He knew this when he saw the fear flickering through Rodney's eyes diminish like a sputtering candle, leaving the charred remains of empty despair.

When Lt. Colonel John Sheppard was afraid, then all were screwed. John realized this with a jolt that physically rocked him. It's why he fought never to show fear. Leaders weren't supposed to show fear. It was dangerous to show fear.

At that very moment, John despised his position in life, his rank, his leadership. It didn't allow him the simplicity of giving in – not to fear, not to any emotion. He was supposed to be the strong one to give strength to everyone else. That was his job, his responsibility. He was supposed to keep hope alive so that it continued to burn in those he led, even if it was just pretend after hope had smoldered out of existence from him a long time ago.

He was the stoker of flames, the light that guided, that beckoned, pushing onward and dragging everyone with him where ever they went, never letting them drop...

John despised it, despised all of it. He couldn't do it, he couldn't...

_You have to. They'll die if you don't. No choice._

John shook with a combination of rage and terror.

_No choice, no choice, no choice. Look at Rodney. He's dying, giving up, because you can't even pretend you're handling things. _Rodney looked sick. Pale, sunken-eyes like bruises, labored breathing, and shaking limbs. He was growing thin, wasting away right in front of John. Losing to a damn hill.

John shook his head fiercely.

"Uh-uh," he gritted, and grabbed Rodney's arm, holding him up as they trudged back down the hill. "We'll be all right. You'll be all right. You, Ronon, Teyla, you will. You will!" he roared, causing Rodney to flinch, which was good. Fear would give him energy. It would help.

John was wrong.

When the next morning came, Rodney couldn't move. John had to help him lift his bowl of porridge to drink. Then the trumpet sounded and the prisoners forced their wasted bodies to move. A man came injecting John with the serum, then moved on. John's body continued to thrum from yesterday's injection. Today's made every nerve ending feel as though insects were shredding them piece by piece. He rose and tugged on Rodney's arm trying to get him to move.

"Come on, come on," John urged. He really was dragging Rodney's dead weight up the hill today. Rodney shook his limp head on his weak neck.

"C-can't... Can't..."

"Rodney come on! Get up, please!"

John knelt and slid his arms beneath Rodney's armpits trying to haul him up only to be brought back down. "Rodney!" John both snarled and begged. He looked up to see a guard moving toward them. But instead of having his prod at the ready, the guard unslung his rifle. John's heart slammed hard enough to jerk his body, and the breath caught in his throat.

"Rodney move! Please! They're going to kill you!"

That got Rodney struggling to his feet with the moist grass making them slip out from under him. He really couldn't do it, no matter how hard he tried.

"Rodney please!" John snarled and sobbed.

Rodney grabbed John's shoulders, and used him to pull himself up. He turned keeping one hand on John's shoulder to steady himself, when the valley reverberated with the thunder of gun fire. Rodney cried out and went down with his left hand going to his right shoulder.

"Rodney no!" John screamed, dropping with Rodney, landing on his knees. Rodney rolled side to side and his legs kicked while blood oozed between his pale fingers from his shoulder. Ronon came running over, Teyla with him, her eyes wide, her face empty of color.

"Rodney!" she cried, dropping at his head and lifting it to set in her lap. Ronon was crouched on Rodney's other side.

McKay's terrified eyes were locked onto John's face.

"He shot me," he croaked. "He... I was up..."

John nodded, but could barely hear Rodney above the roar in his ears. John tore his gaze away from Rodney to the guard standing passively by leaning on his rifle. John's lip curled, as did his back.

"John no!" he heard Teyla say, but it was background noise smothered by the scream of his blood. John pushed off from the ground and tore over the hill to leap at the guard who was never given time to even widen his eyes. He tackled the guard, and once the man was on the ground, pounded his face again and again, screaming out a fury that could have burned John from the inside out. He was only vaguely aware of hands gripping him trying to pull him away, so he fought them, all of them. He whipped around lashing out with his fists, striking faces and other body parts. He kicked, lunged, punched, elbowed, head-butted, anything he could think of. He fought with no real goal in mind, just the desire to feel the blood of others soak his hands to smother the blood pouring from his friend's body.

The consequence was to be beaten back. The strikes he barely felt, but knew they existed. Blows to his head, back, legs, arms, chest, ribs, stomach, everywhere. As he fought, others fought in tandem. Yet the pain was nothing to him. He felt nothing because it might as well be just a dream. He wanted it to be a dream. He wanted to wake up to warmth and his hands clean of bruises and blood. He wanted to dress, walk out, enter the mess hall where Ronon, Teyla, and Rodney would be waiting as they should be, as they used to be. Clean and smiling and...

Another crack of gunfire ripped into the real dream. The sound faltered John's animal frenzy enough for hands to pin him chest down in the grass. Another hand dug into his hair and forced his head up to see Cue-ball standing behind Teyla with something akin to a pistol pressed to her temple. Another man was behind Ronon with the business end of a rifle at his head.

"Calm yourself sir," Cue-ball purred. "You should think this through most carefully. Continue to resist and I will be forced to put an iron pellet into this lovely young woman's head. Acquiesce, and you and your compatriots will remain unharmed. We will even allow you to care for your wounded friend lying on the ground, casually succumbing to death. But you must cooperate. You are an excellent fighter sir, and worker. I would rather have your cooperation, if you don't mind."

John looked from the rigid but resigned Teyla to the glowering Satedan who looked just as ready to kill in return, then to Rodney writhing on the ground whimpering in pain. John could feel his own heart beating against the ground like a fist.

_They must live, they must..._

John finally nodded.

Cue-ball pulled his gun away and holstered it. "Good."

John was released, and he didn't hesitate in scrabbling over the ground back to Rodney. Blood continued to flow in rivulets between Rodney's fingers. John yanked off his own shirt and tore it into strips that he wrapped around Rodney's shoulder, tight, layer on layer. He heard the crunch of grass beneath heavy boot tread, but ignored it. He couldn't ignore it when the toe of those boots nudged him in his bruised and vividly visible ribs.

"Such a scrawny thing you are," said Cue-ball. "It amazes me you can even stand let alone put up such a fight. Could you boys imagine if we released him into the armies of our enemies with just a knife? Why, we'd have this war won."

Cue-ball's men guffawed at that.

"Chain him to the pole," Cue-ball said. "I don't want to have to find him for tonight's fight."

Hands were all over John once again, gripping him and pulling him away. Ronon moved to intervene only to have the rifle jab into his skull. Teyla, stroking Rodney's head, simply watched with tears cutting pale tracks through the grime on her face. Rodney watched with no hope left, and fear filling where hope should have been.

John was dragged to the center of camp near the fighting ring and chained by the ankle to a pole like a dog to a stake. The metal clasp hurt biting into his bony ankle, John's friends were in trouble, and terror blinded him until the need to fight, to escape, to defend became the center of his narrowed world. He pulled and yanked at the manacle and chain until both his hands and his ankle bled. He kept this up all day until evening, when the chain was suddenly removed and he was thrust into the ring.

His opponent was huge, taller than John, and thick as an elephant, with a heavy beard and no hair on his gleaming scalp. He came straight at John as the audience hooted, hollered, and shook their guns.

John was overcome by a new instinct, the instinct to run. Not because of fear, not because of potential defeat, but because he was free and wanted to get back to his team. So when the bull-man charged, John turned and ran from the ring. It was unexpected, so much so no one reacted for a whole three heartbeats. Then there were shouts, and a stampede of footfalls as several of the guards gave chase. John, high on the serum, ran faster than he had ever run before, back to the row of slaves settling down for another sleepless night. He ran along them, rousing them in alarm, their faces a white blur to him.

Except for the ones he searched for. He knew where they were, like an instinct, and skidded to a stop falling to his knees before his bewildered team.

"Rodney?" he panted, frightened, both wanting to know and not wanting to. Rodney was lying on the ground, his head in Teyla's lap and his sunken eyes closed. But at the sound of his name, the eyelids fluttered and pulled open.

"Sh-Sheppard?" He slurred. John smiled with relief strong enough to topple him.

"He has a fever," Teyla quietly stated.

Relief was snatched from John, along with his breath. He was about to respond when shouting and clamoring footfalls pulled his attention away. The men were coming.

"You guys need to get out of here," John frantically explained. "Tonight, however you can. Just go, get Rodney home."

Ronon shook his head. "We won't..."

"Leave me and go!" John snarled. "You can come back for me later, just get Rodney home, please. He won't make it..."

Numerous hands grabbed him and began dragging him away. John kicked, bucked, squirmed, and writhed.

Then a trumpet blared, three times sharply. The men hauling John away stopped, then seconds after dropped him. John didn't ponder this, he just rolled onto all fours and crawled back to the others.

"John?" Teyla said, voice small and timid, her eyes darting everywhere. Gunshots ripped the silent night, and shouts sounded in between. Every armed body in the camp – slave guards included – were rushing away into, then back out of, the camp. More gunfire cracked through the air, making the team cringe. Teyla began shivering with a look of confused fear. John moved to her, and wrapped his arms around her.

"It's all right, it's all right, it's all right," he said over and over. Teyla's head pressed against his chest as she clung to his arm with one hand while keeping the other clasped to Rodney's good shoulder. Rodney's hand was latched onto Teyla's sleeve. Ronon wrapped his arms around both John's and Teyla's shivering frames.

"It's all right, it's all right, it's all right..." over and over and over as the night erupted all around them with the explosion of gunfire and screams of dying men.

TBC...

A/N: You like? Let me know. I don't use a beta so all mistakes are mine. I will be editing this story one more time later for any lingering corrections that need to be made, but wanted to get it up since it's been a while since I've posted a whump fic. And though the chapters may be long, there's only three all together, all completed.


	2. Part 2

A/N: Eeeeeeeeeee! The reviews have blown me away! You like it, you really, really like it! Hope this chapter pleases just as well. Lot of emotional stuff here.

Part Two

Healing

The tall, broad shouldered man in the deep green cloak and with a salt and pepper beard escorted Lorne and his men through the debris of battle; lost weapons, trampled tents, charred wood, and bodies, bodies, bodies. Bodies covered the ground almost solid, and any visible patches of once green grass had been trampled and ground into puddles of mud and blood.

The man – Aravin – stepped over the bodies of friend and foe too bloodied and disfigured by bullets to tell apart. "Most of the slaves were left unscathed, and very few killed. The Moritaans attempted to return behind the battle lines in order to kill the slaves as a final act of defiance. But weakened as they were, our captured brethren would not go down without a fight. We were able to intercede before it escalated. Most are already on their way back to their families and home, but there are many left unable to travel for one reason or another. This way."

Aravin veered moving along the base of the hill. His men were dispersed all throughout the valley and the hill establishing their own camp to hold it. They passed decrepit men covered in rags and mud on the ground being given bowls of stew or cups of water. Some of these emaciated people were clustered together trembling either in confused fear or from the cold.

"Most have been quite receptive to our care, but your group (if they are your people mind you) have not been so welcoming though I quite understand. We've been leaving them food, blankets, bandages and such though I'm not sure if they have been taken yet. And be cautious on approach. One of them has been acting... protective... and managed to procure a knife."

Lorne grinned. _Ronon. _Had to be. And this group had to be _the_ group, Sheppard's team. Aravin hadn't been so insistent concerning other unusual groups he'd come across after slave liberation. Something had to be incredibly unique about this one to request that Lorne and posse head on over to check things out. The Aritaans were too intimidated by the 'Lanteans to be screwing them – intimidated and hopeful to form an alliance. Lorne had shrugged and said 'yeah sure' to the prospect with no intent of honoring the casual promise. The Moritaans weren't the only ones packing slave labor, and that didn't sit well with any 'Lantean.

"They are here," Aravin said, and pointed the way. Lorne brushed past him indifferently with his men following close on his heels. They had to maneuver through a small group of men assisting some of the wounded. The moment Lorne was through, he jerked to a stop when light flashed off the tarnished surface of a rather wicked looking dagger pointed his way.

What really had him reeling was the one holding that dagger, and it wasn't Ronon. Ronon was sitting on the ground next to a covered, writhing, moaning McKay. The Satedan had one leg up, and the other stretched out with a strip of bloodied cloth tied around his thigh. Teyla was beside him, with Rodney's head in her lap, her fingers running through his hair, and her gaze staring down and distant with no discernible expression.

Lorne saw all this at a glance without moving his eyes from the knife, or the one who held it. To say Lorne was shocked didn't cut it, but there was no other appropriate word to use. This was Sheppard he was staring at, his CO, laid back one minute and all business the next Lt. Colonel John Sheppard under all the dirt, blood, and bruises. He was so thin – emaciated – and half naked, making it hard to look at him. But he couldn't really be called frail, not with that knife, and not with that look in his eyes. Wild - feral wild - like a rabid and cornered animal. He was poised to strike, breathing fast, crouched with haunches tense, one hand on the ground and the other outstretched brandishing the knife.

The rabid animal look was driven deep when foamy saliva stretched from the corner of Sheppard's partially open mouth all the way to the ground.

Lorne took a small, cautious step back. "Colonel Sheppard?"

Sheppard blinked hard, and his head twitched. "Major?"

"Yeah. Um... We're here... to bring you home."

Sheppard kept the knife raised. "Took you long enough."

"Well... You weren't exactly easy to find..."

"Did you bring a jumper?"

Lorne nodded stiffly. "Yeah. One's nearby. We couldn't exactly bring it because of all these people..."

Sheppard flipped the knife in his hand to have the handle out, and handed it back to Ronon. "Get something to carry Rodney," Sheppard seethed, "and let's go. _Now_."

Lorne flinched and nodded. He signaled with a gesture for the men behind him to carry out the Colonel's orders. As for himself, he couldn't take his eyes from his CO, and it wasn't just because of his immediate appearance. Lorne was nervous, and it was growing the longer the Colonel stared at him. Sheppard had barely moved except to change position to have his arms wrapped loosely around his legs. When someone shouted, or some other loud noise burst unexpectedly, Sheppard's eyes would dart rapidly in the general direction of the sound, then return his gaze to his second.

Ronon was watching Sheppard as though waiting for him to do something. Teyla still stared off into space, and Rodney writhed.

Lorne cleared his throat uncomfortably. He wasn't sure if speaking was wsie, yet neither could he handle the tense silence. "You uh... You all right sir?"

It was Ronon who answered. "No he isn't." Sheppard made no response to refute that.

The men returned with a stretcher of sorts – cloth secured to two wooden poles by rope. They lowered it next to McKay, and as gently as they could shifted the injured man onto it. McKay stiffened and cried out. The wiry remnant of muscles beneath Sheppard's filthy skin twitched and his movements were so sudden they made Lorne wince. Ronon was just as fast reaching out a hand to place on John's shoulder before the wild man could attack – or whatever it was he had planned on doing.

"Peace," Ronon said. " They're helping, you know this."

Sheppard nodded and eased back, but didn't relax.

When Rodney was secure on the stretcher, another man helped Ronon to his feet. Lorne was about to help Teyla but John beat him to it, rising and scurrying over to her, then placing an arm around her shoulder and pulling her protectively to him. Lorne half-expected his CO to give him a withering look – Lorne didn't know why – but expectations fell short. John was focused on Teyla with his gaze softened, worried, as he whispered assurances to her. Teyla leaned against him, shivering just as bad as he was.

"These are your people then," said Aravin. Lorne whirled around. He'd totally forgotten about the guy.

Lorne nodded stiffly. "Yeah, they are."

Aravin smiled, more relieved than pleased. "Good, good. Most excellent. Then... Perhaps when all has been settled with them, you might return..."

"Yeah, yeah, sure, why not." Lorne said as he slowly began backing away. "I'll have a talk with my leader and we'll see." He finally turned and hurried after the others. Lorne doubted Dr. Weir would go for any diplomatic relations with one side of a divided world. Still, they did help, and Lorne supposed some sort of compensation was in order – like medicine, food; harmless crap.

The jumper was parked within the woods at the edge of the valley and cloaked. Not all that far but too far for wounded in Lorne's opinion.

Sheppard's team proved him wrong. They limped and hobbled the entire way with the occasional stumble followed by a refusal (rather vicious, snarling refusal from Sheppard) for help. Lorne and another marine spread their focus to their surroundings when they entered the woods, making sure through sight and sound that they weren't being followed. Lorne tapped his com and gave the command for the jumper to de-cloak. The ship wavered into existence with the ramp lowered for everyone to file inside.

McKay was set on the floor and one of Carson's field medics was on him taking vitals and preparing an I.V. Ronon was set on the bench where another marine changed the dressings around his leg. Sheppard sat on the opposite bench in the far corner with Teyla next to him but his eyes on McKay. For a moment, he looked torn, then confused, as he watched the medic cut open Rodney's shirt to get to his shoulder.

Lorne pulled blankets from the overhead compartment above where Ronon sat, all while eying Sheppard carefully.

"So what's wrong with them?" Lorne muttered out of the corner of his mouth to Ronon.

"Teyla was almost raped," Ronon stated, and the cold bluntness of that statement made Lorne flinch for a third time. "Sheppard's been drugged – a lot. Probably too much. It gives him a lot of energy, but makes him all confused. Violent too if you're not careful. Real violent."

Lorne grimaced as he unfolded the blankets, handing one to Ronon. "Great. Violent as in keep stunners handy?"

" No stunners!"

A fourth flinch, and Lorne looked away from Sheppard to look at Ronon. He cringed internally at the Satedan's threatening glower that could have stripped flesh from bone with its heat. Lorne couldn't explain it, not at first, but there was something different about Ronon's normally dangerous look. Lorne had to think about it, and forced himself to hold the Satedan's gaze while he did. It wasn't until Ronon shook his head that it hit Lorne.

Ronon looked worried. Hell, he looked scared, and that stunned Lorne into dropping his jaw in a slight gape.

"No stunners," the Satedan said. "I can calm him down if it gets bad. But it shouldn't. I think he knows we're safe. It's just going to take a while for it to sink in."

Lorne nodded, then slowly approached Sheppard, holding out two more blankets. "Colonel Sheppard?"

Sheppard pulled his gaze away from Rodney to look at the Major. Gone was the rabid animal, the feral gaze. Confusion was all consuming in Sheppard, and the frailty that was missing before was glaringly vivid now. The Colonel seemed lost, afraid, and nakedly vulnerable.

Lorne nearly looked away, as though he were seeing something he wasn't supposed to. Instead, he clenched his jaw, and took another step with blankets presented.

"You look cold sir," he said.

Sheppard just stared at Lorne as though attempting to figure something out. Lorne finally took the initiative and draped a blanket around both Sheppard and Teyla. Sheppard clutched the two halves of the blanket together, then twitched his eyes away back down at Rodney.

The bay doors closed, and the jumper cloaked and rose into the air. The small ship whipped over the trees that were a blur of green, away from the valley and its lake of bodies and blood. By foot the 'gate was an eternity away. By jumper – half an eternity. It was easy to spot being on a hill in a clearing surrounded by lesser trees. The 'gate was dialed, and the fist of foaming crystal liquid punched horizontally through the air before congealing. The pilot slowed the jumper and eased it into the shimmering puddle.

One wild ride later that everyone was pretty much jaded to, the jumper emerged into the pristine construction that was Atlantis, and rose into the bay.

Lorne's work was done here, and he'd never felt more relieved to be able to think that. He also hoped never to have to feel that relieved about a mission again.

SGA

Elizabeth bolted into the jumper bay at the same time Carson and his team strolled swiftly in pulling gurneys or pushing wheelchairs. It was organized chaos with orders being shouted and people filing into the jumper to come rushing out mere minutes later. Rodney was first to emerge on a gurney with an oxygen mask over his face and a blanket covering him to just below his chest. His pale, flaccid chest and bony shoulder were painted in a solid sheen of blood. Elizabeth's hand shot straight to her mouth.

"Oh no..."

Someone already had an I.V. in him, with a scrub-clad nurse holding up the bag as they hurried Rodney away. Ronon came next sitting up on a gurney with one leg bulging in a layer of blood-soaked bandages. The big man wasn't looking quite so big with his hollow cheeks, sunken eyes and diminished muscle tone. But the look on his face was pure Ronon – glaring against any and all pain rather than giving into it. He followed after Rodney out of the bay and down the hall.

Tyla followed after in a wheelchair, hair matted, and mud and blood-caked hands covering her bowed face. Elizabeth's heart ached at what could only be described as a display of concealment, though it couldn't be said what Teyla was hiding from. Elizabeth had a few theories, and it made her nauseas. She was compelled to move toward the jaded Athosian leader and ask the inane question of if she was all right. Or more appropriately, if she would _be_ all right.

A commotion in the jumper snatched Elizabeth's attention. She whirled around to see medical personnel and several marines clustered in the left hand corner of the jumper, shifting about uncomfortably and staring at something that had them all pale. Morbid curiosity had Elizabeth moving into the jumper, and several marines parted for her so she could be nearer to the forefront.

She jerked to a stop with her breath catching and her heart jolting at seeing John packed huddling and rocking in the corner on the bench, with knees drawn up to his chest and hands gripping the edge of the bench so tight it looked as though the bones of his knuckles had torn though the skin. Elizabeth's stomach tied itself into numerous knots over the blood and filth covering the skeletal body like a second layer of skin. He wore an expression of desperation, so lost and so confused Elizabeth nearly broke down even with an audience to witness it.

"Colonel Sheppard," said the young male medic bending down near but not too near John. "You'll be going with them but you have to get in the wheelchair first."

John shook his head. "No, no, it hurts, I have to move, it hurts if I don't move, I have to go with them. Why can't I go with them? I have to move, let me go... Let me go with them, please?"

The medic passed his hand over his face and looked to everyone imploringly. When he spotted Elizabeth, he physically jolted. "Dr. Weir! Uh... He refuses to ride in the wheelchair."

Elizabeth would have attributed this to Sheppard's stubborn resolve, but nothing about him came across as any sort of resolved. On top of the confusion was fear, which was probably the secondary instigator along with cold making him shiver so hard. John continued to shake his head.

"I can't, I can't, it hurts, it hurts not to move. Don't make me sit. Ah man, please don't make me."

"Ronon said something about him being drugged, ma'am," said Lorne. " Way more than once. This might be some kind of withdrawal. We may need to get Ronon back in here. He said he knew how to calm him down or something."

Elizabeth doubted any of Carson's personnel would allow that to happen with Ronon injured. Rodney would be in surgery by now, and Teyla... Elizabeth wasn't even sure she knew what was going on with the poor woman. If worse came to worse, Elizabeth supposed the medics might acquiesce to letting Ronon handle things, especially once he was stable. But Elizabeth didn't want to wait around. She moved carefully forward, and slowly sat herself down a foot from John.

"We should make room," she said directing the statement to all non-essential personnel crowding the jumper. Lorne wasn't looking too sure about this, but complied when Elizabeth gave him a nod coupled with a warning look. The marines shuffled out, leaving the young medic, the nurse pushing the wheelchair, Elizabeth and John.

"John?" Elizabeth said. She wanted to reach out to him, place her hand on his thin shoulder and ground his physical presence into her mind. Except she had more common sense than that. "John, look at me."

John's head jerked and twitched as it turned to land his wild and glassy gaze on her. He blinked several times and seemed suddenly uncertain as to what he was looking at. Then the uncertainty, confusion, and loss flitted away to be replaced by a sickly and heart-wrenching hope.

"E-Elizabeth?" he breathed. " Elizabeth... Don't make me not move. It hurts. Please. I need to go with them."

Recognition was established, and John even scooted slightly closer to Elizabeth. His imploring look thrust upon her the burden of being the one with all the answers, and the ability to make everything right. The innocent, child-like show of faith shattered her caution, and she reached out to wrap her fingers around his fragile wrist, and lifted an eyebrow in surprise to feel the dirt-encrusted black sweatband still in its usual place. Her forefinger slipped off the edge of the band and pressed into the pulse-point, feeling the rapid thrum of blood pumping too fast for what should have been a dead-tired body.

John's back thumped the wall of the jumper as his agitated rocking increased. Any faster or harder and he was going to hurt himself. Elizabeth breathed out a resigned sigh. "Can you walk?"

John nodded vigorously. The young medic rose abruptly causing John to flinch and recoil back.

"I really don't think that's a good idea, Dr. Weir," the young man said, looking from Elizabeth to John.

Elizabeth shrugged. "Looks like we don't have much of a choice. I'll walk with him. You stay close behind. If he starts to falter, then we get him to sit."

With that said, and without giving the medic a chance to protest, Elizabeth stood, keeping hold of John's wrist. "Come on, John. I'll take you to them."

John nodded, relieved, and even more hopeful than before. He pushed himself to his feet with a bared-teeth grimace and small grunt of pain. He staggered a little before finding his footing and straightened as much as his pained body would allow – which wasn't all that much. Elizabeth slid her hand up to John's bicep in a loose grip. The medic draped the blanket back over his shoulders then backed off. Together, John and Elizabeth exited the jumper and made their way from the bay down the hall to the infirmary.

John never faltered. He leaned against Elizabeth, so Elizabeth put her arms around his shoulders to take most of his weight. Progress was slow but they eventually arrived, and with Sheppard still on his own two feet. The infirmary doors slid open assaulting them with an avalanche of sound – shouts for the most part, the beeping of monitors, and the metallic clatter of instruments. It surrounded them like a flood that had Sheppard gasping a ragged lungful and trying to pull away. Elizabeth tightened her hold around his shoulders and leaned her head in close to his ears, whispering sureties and making soothing sounds.

"Shhh, it's all right, John. You're all right. You know this place, you know what's going on..."

Nurses in scrubs approached but kept to the back and sides out of John's peripheral vision. One of Beckett's underling physicians – Janet, blond who always wore a braid – walked ahead leading Elizabeth to the nearest gurney where they could place John. John's eyes darted around the infirmary, momentarily lingering on Ronon laying back in his own gurney with his pant-leg cut away, then moved to Teyla in another gurney staring blankly ahead as nurses took her blood pressure and other vitals.

Elizabeth heard Sheppard's breath quicken.

"Where's Rodney? I don't see Rodney, where is he?" he once again tried to pull away.

"He's in surgery, John," Elizabeth said. " Beckett's taking care of him. You're home John, everyone is going to be all right."

John's breathing calmed but his eyes wouldn't stop their manic wandering. His head twitched in the direction of any shouting or the sudden clang of something dropped. He didn't seem aware when Elizabeth brought him to a bed, and complied without realizing when both Janet and Elizabeth coaxed him to sit on the edge of the bed. Instead of sitting, he brought his legs up to huddle the same way he had in the jumper, with fingers curled like claws into the edge of the mattress. It was a looser huddle, however, that allowed Janet to slip the stethoscope onto his filthy chest. John sat stiff as a tree, his chest pulsating fast, and his head darting in every possible direction at every minute sound. He reminded Elizabeth of a cat, a high strung cat one sudden noise away from bolting. She kept one hand on his shoulder and the other rubbed up and down alone his arm loosening flakes of the encrusted dirt and blood to reveal pale skin underneath.

Janet moved the stethoscope to Sheppard's back and instructed him to breathe deep. He did in a gasping kind of way as though he couldn't get enough air. Janet winced and removed the scope from the dirt-caked back and her ears.

"There's congestion," she said. "Heart rate and blood pressure are high, no surprises there." She flashed a penlight in John's eyes. John didn't even blink. "That can't be good," she muttered, then jotted something down on a clipboard. "Dr. Beckett's going to want a blood sample," she muttered more to herself than anyone else. Another nurse handed her a capped syringe then tied a rubber band around John's upper arm. Janet uncapped the syringe and pressed the tip of the needle into John's vein within the crook of his arm.

John reacted. With a scream of terror that scared Elizabeth, John attempted to throw himself back off the bed trying to get away. He slammed into Elizabeth forcing her to catch him and push him back onto the bed to keep the both of them from being dumped to the floor. Sheppard shrank against Elizabeth with both arms bent and pressed against his chest, giving Janet a glare of pure, defiant rage.

"No, no, no, no, no, you're not putting that crap in me, not anymore, no more, don't _touch me!"_ He didn't seem to realize that Elizabeth still had a hold of his shoulder and arm. She placed her mouth inches from his ear with her chin on his other shoulder.

"John, listen to me. She isn't going to put anything in you. She's going to take some blood so that we can learn what's in you and find a way to get it out. You do want it out, right? To stop feeling this way?"

With John pressed against her, she felt his breath hitch, and small tremors flit through his skin. Then he nodded.

"Stop," he croaked. "Make it stop. Where's Rodney? I don't see him."

Elizabeth resumed rubbing his arm, and moved with him when he began to rock.

"Rodney's with Carson. Carson's taking care of him now. You don't have to worry anymore, John. Just let us help you." She slide her hand from his sharp shoulder, down his arm to pull it away from his chest and have it within Janet's reach. Janet took John's wrist gently, and using a new needle gathered a vial of blood from the crook of his arm. John cringed when the needle sank into his skin. The syringe filled with red, then Janet pulled the needle from the skin and placed a wad of cotton over the pin-prick hole. A nurse took the vial and hurried off to the lab.

"All done with the needles, Colonel," Janet said. "In a few minutes we're going to take you into X-ray, then we'll have you cleaned up and put into some scrubs. Dr. Weir, could you stay with him so I can see if X-ray is open?"

Elizabeth nodded. "Yeah."

Janet nodded and hurried off leaving Just Elizabeth with John. Elizabeth placed both hands on his shoulders and pressed her forehead against his back just below his neck. His backbone pressed into her forehead. It was uncomfortable, but she didn't care. She could feel his trembling more than see it, and felt herself start shaking in time as she fought to uphold her outer shell of self control. Inside she felt as though she were being ripped to pieces, with pressure trying to crush her chest while also pushing moisture around her eyes until they blurred. A part of her tried to get her to pull away from John and close her eyes against the dirt, blood, cuts, bruising and skin that looked about as thick as transparent tissue paper. And yet at the same time she was transfixed to the spot, following the curve of his spine with her eyes, the contoured lines of his ribcage. Bones always looked more delicate when they didn't have muscle and flesh padding them. She felt she could easily crush him into oblivion with nothing more than a simple hug. That scared her, and would have had her pulling away if it wasn't for the more overwhelming need to keep in physical contact with him; in part for him, but if she were honest with herself, it was more out of her own need.

Elizabeth's stomach twisted itself and she kept having to swallow repeatedly to keep back what kept trying to rise up. "You're doing good, John," she said, patting him on one shoulder. "You're going to be all right." She finally pulled her head away from off his protruding backbone and leaned a little to the side for a quick peek at his face. He had his arms wrapped around his legs, still rocking away since he said lack of motion hurt. His eyes were following an invisible tennis match flicking back and forth between Ronon and Teyla. Then Ronon was wheeled around, probably to surgery or X-ray, and Elizabeth felt the stringy muscles of John's shoulders pull beneath her fingers.

"Ronon?" He whimpered the name like a little kid watching his dog being hauled away by strangers. The old 'we're sending him away to a farm where he'll be much happier' deal. And who the hell ever believed that?

"They're just going to fix him up, John," she assured. "Helping him, just like they're helping Rodney and Teyla."

Janet returned flanked by two nurses like an honor guard. "All right, Colonel," she said. "Let's take you into X-ray, get some nice shots of your bones, then get you cleaned up and tucked in."

Elizabeth let her hands slide off of John's shoulders so she could step back. John's head whipped around to stare at her wide-eyed and bewildered as the nurses tried to coax him sweetly into lying down.

Elizabeth folded her arms since letting them hang uselessly at her side was driving her crazy. "It's all right, John," she said. "I'll be here when you get back. Just lay back down and let them help you, just like they're helping your team."

John complied, easing back painfully slow with a small wince and a grunt that caught and turned into an even smaller whimper. The effort left him panting as he was wheeled away. Elizabeth continued to stand there long after John was moved beyond sight. She kept one arm hugging herself across the stomach and the other propped on top of the first so her hand could cover her mouth.

_What happened to them...? What was done...? They hurt them... Rodney was shot... Ronon... Why is Teyla...? Maybe I should talk to her... John is so thin... so thin... I could see his bones..._

The stench of old sweat and blood lingered in her nostrils. Her stomach wrapped itself into a pretzel shape until the contents wouldn't take being gulped back as an answer. With forced dignity, Elizabeth moved swiftly toward the infirmary bathroom. She didn't lurch dropping to her knees before the toilet until the door had slid shut. In between the heaves that pushed burning bile through her throat, she sobbed, mixing sweat with tears.

SGA

Carson let his underlings wheel Rodney into the ICU unit of the infirmary. He followed for a little ways triple checking with a quick sweep of his eyes the various machines aiding Rodney in staying alive; respirator, I.V. of blood, I.V. of drugs, a machine to monitor his heart, another his BP, machines to monitor this and to monitor that, all hooked up correctly and with great care to a malnourished, fever-ridden, and basically all around fragile body that had hung on by a fraying thread.

They'd almost lost him on the table – twice.

Carson had to consciously and forcefully pull away from the abused body of his friend. He had three other worries to rectify. Carson snapped off his bloody latex gloves and tossed them into the bio-waste receptacle on his way to the main foyer of the infirmary. Dr. Biro and Dr. Janet Baker met him half way and joined him in his short trek.

"Ronon's surgery was successful," Biro said. " We were able to remove the bullet. It missed the bone and caused mainly muscle damage that wasn't extensive, so he should heal fine. He's resting now."

Janet took up the rundown momentum as though the two had been rehearsing this. "When we removed Teyla's jacket we found her shirt had been shredded. I acted on assumption and performed a rape kit. She spoke very little except to confirm that she was attacked but we found no evidence that anything of a sexual nature had been done to her, although it may have happened some time ago."

Biro jumped in. "Ronon was able to tell us that he and Colonel Sheppard were able to intervene."

Janet handed Carson a folder. "These are Colonel Sheppard's blood tests. A foreign substance has been found in his blood stream so we're not able to give him anything for pain." Janet took a deep breath as though trying to compose herself. They stopped walking to stand in the center of the infirmary close to the bed where Teyla rested dressed in scrubs, her face pale and eyes sunken.

"The drug must be dulling much of the pain," Janet said. " He has three broken ribs, two cracked, a broken collar bone, cracked scapula, severe bruising to his ankle, back, abdomen, electrical burns, several cuts that have become infected which have led to congestion I'm keeping an eye on and hoping doesn't turn into pneumonia, and of course the obvious malnutrition evident in the entire team. And seeing as how we can't sedate him, I don't think he's going to be sleeping tonight."

Carson perused John's chart. According to a second blood test, the substance was being extremely slow about being metabolized. Carson closed the chart and looked over at the bed next to Teyla's where John sat up, bandaged, dressed in scrubs, and rocking back at forth as he stared at Teyla. He'd been cleaned up, even shaved for a better view of the bruises that even in the dim light over John's bed were glaringly bright against his pallid face. The pale blue scrub top was so loose on him it looked like it wanted to fall off by the collar. The right arm was in a sling giving support to the busted clavicle, and white bandages peeked out of the low-hanging collar.

The intent with which John watched Teyla was a hurricane of emotion that was hard to keep up with. Confusion, anger, fear, worry, sorrow with just a hint of pain betrayed in the occasional wince. The substance may have lessened the pain, but the pain was still there.

Carson tucked the folder beneath his arm and thanked the two doctors, dismissing them to get some rest. Carson moved over to John's bed slowly and with just a little caution, and sat down at the foot of it. The shift in the mattress caused John's head to snap around landing his frantic eyes on Carson. Carson shifted hiding his sudden trepidation. John's eyes softened with recognition, leaving behind the anger but keeping the confusion, worry, and fear.

"Rodney?" he asked.

Carson relaxed, and gave John a melancholy smile. "Out of surgery and still alive." He let his smile fade. "I won't lie to you lad. Healing's to be a bumpy road for him. The blood loss was bad, and with him having a fever it made things a mite dicey for a time. Along with being undernourished and exhausted he's sporting a few broken bones himself. Ribs, mostly, and a few fingers in his left hand. But the lad's tougher than he lets on, and I think you've been rubbing off on him. He held on during surgery, he'll hang on as he heals. So don't you be frettin' over him too much. Rodney'll pull through."

John twisted the edge of the blanket covering him in his shaking hand. "Can I see him?"

Carson pursed his lips and shook his head. "Sorry lad, not tonight. He's resting and you need to...Well, you need to be as still as ya can so you can start healing."

John swallowed and a more violent shudder passed through him. "It hurts not to move." Which explained the constant rocking. John went back to watching Teyla, and Carson watched John in return. And it wasn't easy. He was seeing John in two parts. The John he always saw and so knew; the protective John, the John that always needed to defend, to safeguard the other. The John he knew was there but never saw, was never supposed to see; John vulnerable, John afraid, John confused, and it pricked Carson's heart sharply to be witnessing this otherwise unknown part of Sheppard.

Carson had liked John the moment they met. Well, perhaps not the _exact_ moment with John stalking toward him demanding to know if Carson had been the one to mistakenly sic the drone on him and O'neil. It was afterwards, when Carson had apologized in the most heartfelt way he could, and John forgiving him as though all Carson had done was put a dime-sized dent in his chopper rather than nearly blowing it out of the sky. The military made Carson nervous. Carson had no qualms about standing up to them when the time called for it, but tended to get a little less annoyed and more intimidated when trying to argue his point to a soldier, only to have said soldier's hand start straying to his barretta.

Any other pilot probably would have shot Carson for the whole drone thing. But After Sheppard's acceptance of the apology (and the initial shock that this lanky pilot had only just now been given security clearance) Carson had immediately given in to feeling relaxed. Carson talked of Ancient genes, and John had listened with mild fascination as he poked and prodded at the weapons chair. Of course then John had gone and sat in the chair with everything after following in a blur of constant scientific curiosity. After their arrival on Atlantis, Carson had been sure that Sheppard would definitely shoot him after all the blood he'd taken from the man's body in creation of the gene therapy inoculation.

A year later Carson's retrovirus nearly morphed John into a 'thing' and the Colonel kept pushing how it wasn't Carson's fault. Carson suspected that had it been any other high ranking military officer, shooting would have definitely followed the healing process. Either that or one hell of a berating.

That was the interesting thing about Sheppard. The man didn't hate easily, or blame easily unless he was blaming himself. Carson would hate to be an enemy crossing John's path on a bad day, but as a friend Carson never had to worry about upsetting the man. Usually it was John upsetting Carson when he went all blasé about his own health and Carson's instructions for maintaining that health. Sheppard was ornery, sarcastic to give McKay a run for his money, smart-mouthed, cocky, and one hell of a dangerous soldier. What he wasn't was a jerk. He cared too much to be a jerk.

Carson smiled slightly. Rodney would beg to differ. He called John a jerk all the time, along with idiot and ass. Any other military man would have decked Rodney by now (and have). John - he grinned, took it, then returned fire. McKay could deny it all he wanted, but it really was a battle of intelligence, wit for wit, comment for comment. It pissed McKay off, and alternately irritated and amused John. What was usually never pointed out was the pride they had in eachother. John threw out the plans to save the day, and Rodney made them happen. It was why John pushed him all the time, even when he seemed to be mad at McKay, yelling at him, shooting verbal burrs to get the man riled. He knew what McKay was capable of, and knew how to prod the man into action. Rodney returned the favor by saving his life.

It was an odd thing to say, but it really was a beautiful friendship. A needed friendship as well, for both of them. It was a given Rodney never made friends without a lot of work and a few accidents. It had taken Carson quite a while to learn not to take Rodney's sarcasm and put-downs seriously. With John, Carson just got the impression that despite all the pilot's charm, he knew good and well what it meant to be lonely.

Carson rose from the bed to move in closer to John. He took the slender wrist into his hand and pressed his fingers over the blue veins. The pulse was fast, like the pulse of a runner after a race. Carson took his Stethoscope and placed it to his ears, then slipped the other end down John's shirt pressing it against his chest. Just listening to the rapid thumps made Carson breathless. When he removed the stethoscope, he turned his head to see John looking up at him.

His fear was as blatant as a fire in the dark.

"It won't stop," he stated.

Carson draped the stethoscope back around his neck. "It will, in time."

"They gave me a lot," he said.

"Do you know how much?"

John shook his head. "I still felt it – the energy – when they gave me another dose." He took several deep breaths as though trying to get a handle on himself. He blinked tears out of his eyes. "It's too much, Carson. It's too much... I can't... I can't think..." he started glancing around in uncertainty, stiffening, gripping the rail with his free hand. "Where's Rodney, and Ronon? I can't find them."

Carson swallowed back a lump trying to lodge itself in his throat, and placed his hand gently on the bony shoulder. "They're safe, John. They're all right."

John turned away to stare at the blanket. He bit his bottom lip and started rubbing the back of his neck. The less visible tremors increased to become more pronounced, and John's breathing hitched. "Is it..." he stuttered, squinting his eyes. " Will i-i-it... k-kill... me?"

Carson breathed deep. The truth? Carson didn't know the truth to be able to tell it, so he went for a truth that was practically universal, especially among the passionate.

"I won't let it, lad." Carson moved away walking fast to pull a folded blanket from off a metal shelf. He returned and draped it lightly across John's hunched back. Carson was tired down to his aching muscles. Sooner or later he was going to need to crash just for a few hours. But that was the odd beauty about being a physician – being able to ignore sleep on a whim when it really mattered, and Carson felt it mattered now. He sat on the edge of the bed to watch Sheppard as Sheppard watched Teyla. Carson would ignore sleep for reasons other than medical, and just sit with his friend.

SGA

Teyla awoke to something being different – _wrong_ – and yet it was still a slow waking. She would have ignored this feeling of something being off and drifted back to sleep if it hadn't been for the many odd sounds shoving their way into her awareness. She opened her eyes with the intent of satisfying her curiosity so she could continue wallowing in the dreamless slumber that was absent of sensation and thought – like freedom.

She didn't want to feel. There were times when there came phantom sensations of touch all over her body when no visible hands were touching her. It made her gut clench, and her mind scream. When that happened, she slipped into sleep to escape, only to be followed. In the dreams, John and Ronon did not come, and the touches pressed, some in uncomfortable places, some until she hurt and couldn't fight against the need to scream.

The world was a blur to Teyla until she blinked enough times to wipe the blur away to reveal a bed. Through the cold metal railing of the bed she distinguished a body curled beneath several blankets, and a pale face close to white and partially obscured by an oxygen mask staring back at her. The panicked hazel eyes caused Teyla to lift her heavy head. She'd never seen that look in those eyes before.

She recalled anger flashing like a raging fire in those eyes, and the pathetic cries of men pulled away and dumped to the muddy ground. The painful touches left her body, freeing her. John and Ronon attacked like animals ripping men off of Teyla. Then the fire in the hazel eyes were extinguished by tears of sorrow, and the next hands to touch her were gentle and cautious pulling her up and away into a warm, safe embrace.

Teyla pushed herself up onto her elbows, then scooted back to be sitting up as much as her aching body would let her. John's terrified eyes followed her. A nurse stood at the foot of the bed writing something down on Sheppard's chart.

"What is wrong with him?" she asked.

The nurse's head shot up as though she hadn't realized Teyla was there. "Oh, Miss Emmagan..." she chuckled nervously. "You startled me..."

"What is wrong with him?" Teyla pressed. She had no room for patience, feeling as frightened as Sheppard looked. The nurse looked from Teyla to John, then back to Teyla uncertainly.

"He has a fever, and is suffering from withdrawal that's making the fever worse. He's been delusional for most of the night and this morning, but the drug in his system is taking too long to metabolize so he's unable to sleep." The nurse gave Teyla a sympathetic look. "And we're unable to give him anything for any pain, which we're all pretty certain he's in. He was all motion the night before last. Now it's like he can't move at all."

The nurse returned the chart to the bed and moved on. So Teyla moved her attention back to John. The nurse was wrong. Sheppard was moving. Teyla could see the body-wracking tremors in his shoulders and the way his fingers twitched. Ignoring bodily aches and lingering exhaustion, Teyla crawled from her bed and padded softly around to the other side of John's bed, away from the wires trailing from him like vines. Sheppard was curled against the far side of the bed leaving Teyla room to haul herself up weakly.

With her legs folded beneath her, she placed John's pillow on her lap. Pulling John's body enough to get his head onto the pillow was a lot harder. She inched him back, then inched herself forward, and with a final heave that had her gritting her teeth, she slid his head and shoulders onto the pillow. Sheppard moaned a little, let out a single small whimper, and that was it. Teyla adjusted the covers around him and huddled over him with her thin arms wrapped around him in a loose embrace. Then she began to rock, back and forth, slow and gentle.

"It is all right John," she breathed toward his ear. "You will be all right. We are all safe now. I will keep you safe."

She meant it. She would keep him safe since he'd kept her safe. It was her turn now, and no one was going to do anything to John to hurt him so long as she was there. It's what they did – he saved her, she saved him. It was simply her turn now.

No one was going to touch him.

John's body convulsed in a fit of violent coughing. His depleted muscles spasmed and his body tensed taut enough to snap. Teyla tightened her hold on him until the coughing passed and his body eased limply in her arms. He'd stopped shivering, and his breathing evened out. Teyla looked up to see the nurse standing only a few feet away staring slack-jawed and pale. Teyla darkened her gaze speaking warnings through her eyes, warnings for the interloper to back off. The nurse got the message and hurried away.

Another watched, but Teyla did not mind his eyes. She preferred him, as he was only another sentry, like herself.

SGA

Ronon watched as one frail body cradled another frail body. Couldn't do otherwise even if he wanted to since his bed was right next to Sheppard's. What he really wanted to do was go to them, and would have with bullet wound to the leg or not. It wasn't like it was a bad wound anyways. No bone penetrated, only muscle, and Carson had even speculated out loud that Ronon would probably be the first one of them out of here.

Ronon would have thought Teyla to be the first released. Beckett, however, had been concerned over her state of mind. Plus Ronon never took long to recover. He never let himself take long. Things happened, injuries happened, pain happened, then he moved on. Yet contrary to Beckett's belief, Ronon doubted he'd be keen on leaving when the time came. This is where his team was, so this is where he needed to stay.

He would move on when his team moved on.

Ronon could have easily moved to Sheppard's bedside. Problem was, once he got there, then what? Hold Teyla? Talk to Sheppard? The moment Beckett intruded upon them was the moment Ronon would have to go back. At the moment, he was rather useless in this scenario. Teyla was doing fine on her own anyways. Sheppard had stopped shaking and his body was actually relaxed. Ronon couldn't see the man's face to know if he was sleeping, so could only hope he was.

On another positive, Teyla was relaxed as well. She rocked and spoke in soft whispers, then began to hum something akin to a lullaby. She pried the arm wrapped across Sheppard's chest away to begin stroking his hair.

It was calming just to watch.

Ronon regarded his two friends in melancholy speculation – protruding bones visible through the scrub-top, even visible through the layer of blankets. Ronon had harbored trust for Teyla quicker than for Sheppard. Teyla had been kind, sympathetic without the pity, and had known what he was. He saw in her what he felt in himself – hatred toward the wraith, loss but the fortitude to go on and never look back. He'd respected her before he came to trust her, which was probably why trust came so easy.

Sheppard had been a bit of an enigma. He'd made promises Ronon had been certain he wouldn't keep, then kept them. Ronon almost felt guilty having withheld his trust from Sheppard until the day Sheppard had asked him to be a member of his team. Even then, Ronon remained cautious. He hadn't known the loose-limbed and seemingly lazy man that long, and a part of him had harbored the belief that this supposed 'military leader' would be nothing more than a joke.

Ronon had been wrong to the point of being ashamed about it. Ronon had never seen loyalty like Sheppard's, and even today Ronon felt hard-pressed to match it.

Ronon's gaze wandered to the bed across the infirmary where McKay lay stretched and wired to machines.

McKay, where to even start with him? Ronon was constantly underestimating the whiny man, and the whiny man was forever surprising him. Rodney had courage whether he showed it or not, loyalty masked by a self-indulging ego, and resolve hidden under a cloak of cowardice. It was as though the man were pretending to be something he wasn't, yet because he didn't know how else to be, what he wasn't had become too much of what he was until no one could see what lay beneath.

No one who didn't know how to look.

It had taken Ronon a while to see what lay beyond, to understand the loyalty Sheppard showed McKay, and the loyalty returned by McKay. Sheppard saw no mask and cloaks, just what they were trying to hide, because Sheppard always knew what Rodney was capable of.

If Ronon didn't know any better, he would suspect he actually harbored love for these people. He'd rather use the term profound respect, but respect didn't quite encompass the need to protect these people at all cost, even if the price was his own life. What else would one call that? What else would one call the deep ache in his chest for the once indomitable friend made small and fragile, for the leader and friend she held in her arms weak, sick, and pained, and for the friend alive because of machines?

What else could it be?

SGA

Rodney awoke to a plethora of discomforts, and immediately tried to slip back into the numb oblivion where those discomforts could not exist. But an annoying accented voice wouldn't let him.

"Come on, lad. I need you to open your eyes for me. Just a wee slit now."

_Fine, if it'll get you to leave me alone._ It took all the energy Rodney had and energy he didn't know he had to get his eyelids to pry apart – a slit, just like his voodoo highness commanded. Fuzzy white light stabbed his retina, and Rodney immediately slammed his eyelids shut. Job done, he was through, Carson had gotten what he had wanted and that was all Rodney was going to give.

"That's good lad. You rest now."

Rodney didn't need to be told twice. Oblivion called, and Rodney gladly obliged.

The next time it receded, the discomforts were less, and the annoyance more. Soft, mumbling voices, and beeping. He knew the beeping, but the voices were too much of a murmur to place. Rodney let the annoyance of pointless noise spur his energy into gathering enough for him to open his eyes. A blurred, bright world met him, and he squeezed them back shut. He then tried again, more tentatively until his eyes were able to adjust to the blinding brilliance. After the light came blurred shapes that took several blinks until they coalesced.

Beds, with rails, and infirmary beds across the way. Three were occupied, but only two were sitting up. The one in the middled was just a lump beneath the blankets, writhing and moaning as the two next to them spoke softly.

Rodney blinked again – Ronon and Teyla, so the one in the middle must be Sheppard. Rodney's mind had never been slow. He recalled everything even in his state of senseless oblivion. Pain, hunger, struggling, being beaten, being shot. Teyla nearly raped. Sheppard drugged.

Rodney took a deep breath. He wanted to speak, to call out to Sheppard, ask how he was, ask how the others were.

_Damn, I'm turning into Sheppard. _Rodney hadn't even assessed himself except to know that he could barely move and wasn't feeling all that hot.

His breathing was caught by the sharp-eared Satedan who whipped his head around to regard McKay stoically. Then a small smile curled the former runner's lips.

"Hey doc!" he called. "McKay's up."

Like magic (or a transporter beam), Beckett materialized beside Rodney.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, son. I was about to wake you myself." Beckett began fiddling with machines and wires, then placed on his stethoscope for vitals. He slid the cup of the scope through the collar of the gown and gently pressed it to Rodney's chest. After the chest, the sides for breath sounds. The covers were pulled back, and Rodney's gown with them for Carson to check the bandages. Rodney would have griped if he could concerning Beckett freezing patients to death, but he neither had the energy nor the voice.

After the vitals check and Beckett speaking of everything in the affirmative, an ice-chip was slipped into Rodney's mouth. The water was heaven soaking into his parched throat.

"To bypass most of the questions and spare your voice, you've been under for nearly a week – five days to be exact since your surgery – and doing quite nicely in that time. No signs of infection and the sutures in your arm are holding. If you're up for it, I'd like to give ya a cup of broth, which means no more feeding tube..."

Feeding tube. The word brought Rodney's awareness honing in on something tugging at the side of his face and bumping the back of his throat. He grimaced, and sympathized with Sheppard for all the times he's had to wear one.

Rodney's gaze wandered back to the three individuals across the way, two of whom were staring at him, all smiles.

Teyla's weak, wavering smile on her thin, pale face was one of her most beautiful smiles Rodney had ever seen. Rodney tried to smile back, felt his lips twitch in the effort, and hoped the effort had been conveyed. He lifted the shaky hand of his unbound arm an inch off the bed.

"H-how..."

Carson leaned in a little. "What was that?"

Rodney swallowed more melting ice-drops. "How... Are they?"

Carson glanced over at Rodney's three team-mates. "Well, Ronon's already back on solids (no surprises there) and Teyla has started eating a bit here and there, soup for the most part. Colonel Sheppard..." the rest of what Carson had been about to say died on his lips. The smile was gone, and the blue eyes clouded. "John's in a bit of a mess. And I won't lie to you, Rodney, it ain't pretty. He's going through withdrawal, which is making it hard to bring his fever down, and both the fever and the withdrawal won't let him eat... We're doing all we can for him but until that damn drug leaves his system completely there's not much else we can do. Another day, maybe two, and his blood should be clean enough for us to give him some good pain meds. Until then..." again he trailed off.

Rodney didn't need to hear the rest. He could see Sheppard writhing and hear his moans and whimpers from where he lay just fine.

---------------------------

Noises were once again the culprit behind Rodney waking. Sounds he'd become accustomed to over the past two days since he rejoined the waking world. Moans interspersed with whimpers of pain. Rodney opened his eyes to the dusky infirmary barely lit by a few scattered, minuscule lights for the nurses to see by. Lifting his head, the lights were enough to see Ronon sitting up in his own bed (the man had refused to leave though Beckett had given him the go-ahead). It was a little hard to see beyond the Satedan, which was driving Rodney crazy. He struggled to sit up.

"Where's Rodney?" The words were spoken by a small, broken voice sounding as though it were being forced through a raw throat. Rodney froze in his struggles, breathing heavy from the effort, and wincing from aches breaking through the weakening barriers of the pain meds.

"Ronon?" Rodney croaked. The Satedan's head turned so fast his dreads whipped out like spider legs. Rodney coughed to clear his throat and speak again.

"Ronon..." it was still too hard. Ronon seemed to realize this, and grabbed one of the crutches leaning against the bed to slide off the mattress and hobble over to the scientist. The former runner grabbed up a cup of water and held it within reach of Rodney's mouth. Rodney took a few sips that hydrated his throat.

"Better?" Ronon asked.

Rodney nodded. He looked past Ronon to the two bony figures huddled on the bed. Teyla was holding John, rocking him back and forth. John's arm flailed limply, grasping the bed railing for a moment before dropping.

"He was trying to get out of bed," Ronon explained. "Didn't get too far. He's too weak."

Dangerously weak if Teyla was able to restrain him. Rodney gulped nervously, then realized that Ronon was staring at him.

"He keeps asking where you are," Ronon said. At first, Rodney believed the Satedan was blaming him for something – not answering John's calls by calling out to assure John that he was around. It took a moment to realize – and realize with alarm – that Ronon was giving him a look of uncertainty, practically _begging_ him to know what to do, how to get Sheppard to calm down.

Rodney knew the answer, had known the answer for a while now. But this time around Carson wasn't here to stop what needed to be done; what Rodney had been wanting to do since waking up and seeing Sheppard writhing in agony.

Rodney pushed himself further up using his elbows. "I need to see him. Or more appropriately, he needs to see me."

Ronon didn't argue the point or try to stop Rodney. He nodded once, then took off only to return seconds later with a wheelchair. He then did most of the work in getting Rodney out of the bed as carefully as possible and placing him in the chair, handling Rodney with kid gloves, as though Rodney were fine china – the expensive kind you bought when you broke.

Rodney's relationship with Ronon was more an acquaintanceship really, something Rodney didn't even feel he could term as friendship. If Ronon helped him out, protected him, or just out and out restrained himself from killing the physicist, it's because they were team mates, not because the Runner actually liked him. McKay always had the feeling that were Sheppard ever out of the picture, then Ronon wouldn't hesitate to fire off his stunner and dump McKay on some remote world just so he didn't have to hear him anymore. He'd threaten to do so on more than one occasion.

It was an unfair assumption about the man, and McKay knew it. Ronon wasn't a bad guy. He was just... impulsive. Didn't mean he hated Rodney, and Rodney was starting to believe as much when Ronon took on a considerate streak and draped a blanket across Rodney's weakened legs and another, lighter blanket across his shoulders.

"You hurt?" Ronon asked to Rodney's further amazement. McKay could only shake his head no.

Ronon pushed the chair with one hand, bringing the I.V. poles along with the other, and wheeling Rodney on over to John's bed. Within the moans and whimpers, McKay heard Teyla's voice humming softly. She looked so small, delicate, and still Xena had nothing on this warrior queen. Her kindness, her patience, her heart Rodney had always taken for granted. They'd been there, and he'd taken them for nothing more than a piece of her personality. But they were more than just traits in a long list of personality traits, they were the traits that dominated. Her strength, courage, and resolve existed because of them, because she loved and cared so acted upon them.

Even as she was now – sickly and frail – she was still beautiful because of them.

Ronon locked the wheelchair into place facing Sheppard's bed. Even before they were locked Rodney was already struggling to rise. Ronon took his arm and helped him to his feet to move an inch closer to the bed. Rodney barely noticed having all his focus locked on his friend.

His friend, the grunt who'd liked Rodney for some inexplicable reason since the day they met. Pushy, smarmy, insufferable, incorrigible, gun slinging, self-sacrificing, cocky military goon Lt. Colonel John Sheppard... this couldn't be him. This – this _creature_, this corpse, this wasted, white, wheezing, shivering, broken, bruised thing of flesh stretched paper thin over a frame of sticks _could not be John Sheppard._

Rodney didn't want it to be. It made him want to cry, and he almost did until he looked down at himself, and nearly laughed. Was he any better off? Rodney was practically glowing white, and was shocked his arm didn't snap in Ronon's grip. They were both creatures, things of sticks and skin, him and John.

The only difference was that John was still starving to death. The fever had broken, but the withdrawal prevented him from keeping anything down for too long, and it was scaring the hell out of Rodney. Even now Rodney's heart picked up the rate to start jackhammering, making him shiver. John was staring at the wall at the head of his bed, glassy-eyed and terrified, with the oxygen mask still over his face for when the cramps made it difficult for him to breathe. Teyla had him almost upright, wrapped in a blanket with his head resting against her sharp shoulder. Teyla had her own head resting on John's upper back just below his neck, but raised it when she finally took notice of Rodney and Ronon.

"He is confused," she sadly stated.

Rodney nodded numbly. "I can see that."

"I do not know what he is seeing, but he is scared. His heart... is beating fast."

Rodney could tell that from Sheppard's shallow, quick breaths rushing hollow in the mask. Then John shifted, probably trying to squirm away.

"Where's Rodney?" he rasped in a squeak. Rodney's chest clenched. This wasn't supposed to be happening. They were home, they were healing, so why wasn't Sheppard?

_Damn drugs. Stupid, damn drugs. Stupid people for giving him drugs. Stupid everything._ Rodney couldn't fight the tears that flooded his eyes and spilled down his face. He reached out to wrap his thin fingers around Sheppard's thin wrist.

"Sheppard. Hey Sheppard. I'm right here, okay? I'm here and I'm not going anywhere."

John blinked and turned his head slightly enough to roll his heavily dilated eyes in Rodney's direction. The eyes widened, which was all the reaction John could muster. He just stared at Rodney in disbelief for a brief moment that stretched on into eternity.

Eternity was shattered when Sheppard inhaled a shuddering breath. "You... Okay?"

Rodney snorted and started chuckling until his whole body shook. But what he'd taken for humor broke down turning laughter to quiet sobs that sent the tears cascading though his lips remained fixed in a smile. "I'm good, Colonel," he wheezed when he was able to get his breath back. "Oh crap I'm just fine. I'm home, I'm healing... I'm fine. So just please stop worrying about everyone. We're all fine. It's okay to relax now. We're all good."

John narrowed his eyes suspiciously, almost like the old John Sheppard when wondering whether Rodney was being melodramatic, sarcastic, or truthful. Rodney squeezed the brittle looking wrist just enough in case sensation took its sweet time getting to Sheppard's pain-hazed brain. Rodney swallowed back the painful lump growing in his throat. Sheppard could still die, and Rodney would never see that look again.

"You're turn, Colonel." He choked out the words that cracked toward the end. "Please?"

SGA

Carson watched the team do what teams did – work as one to achieve a common goal. It took restraint not to go over and demand McKay get back into bed and chew Ronon out for having moved the man. That was just rigid professionalism trying to get its way. What Carson was seeing was just as much healing as laying stretched out on a bed hooked to man-made devices.

Some healing had nothing to do with the physical aspects of a body.

Even from where he stood, Carson was still able to witness John's eyes sliding closed. Rodney's head snapped up to Teyla in alarm, but Teyla assured with a tired, serene smile that she could still feel Sheppard's heart beating. John was fine, just asleep. Carson felt the vice that had been crushing his chest for the past several days loosen its hold on him. Sleep was a step, probably a bigger step than the small team would ever realize. Following sleep, perhaps, would come eating. With eating strength could build. With strength, John would heal.

With healing, John could say 'I'm good' and mean it.

TBC...

A/N: just an epilogue to go.


	3. Part 3

A/N: Here it be, the final chapter.

Epilogue

"All right then, Colonel," Carson said as he snapped on latex gloves. "You ready for your second liberation of the day?"

John grinned up at Carson. "You'd think it was Christmas with how good I'm getting it today."

Carson smiled back, then removed the tape from John's cheek holding the plastic feeding tube in place. He was both gentle but quick about sliding the tube from John's nose that tickled his throat and incited the gagging reflex. A nurse held a plastic cup to John's lips for him to take a few sips and calm the savage beast that was his stomach.

Feeding tube and catheter – just stupid bodily contraptions, but their lack of presence was making John feel like a whole new man.

"I'll be bringing you broth later," Carson said. "After you've digested what's already in there." He set the tube on a tray then snapped off the gloves. "Now with that bit of unpleasantness out of the way, are you up for any visitors?"

John lifted one bony shoulder. Not out of indifference but to hide the giddy enthusiasm that would have made him feel like an idiot. He hadn't been fond of solitude for the past couple of days, though he couldn't explain why.

"Sure."

Like Rodney McKay ever needed permission to do anything. He came wheeling in seconds after John had agreed to company. He was dressed in jeans and a beige sweater that were loose on him like baggy street clothes. John noted the clothes first with a twinge of longing. Not that he was belittling the superiority of scrubs compared to gowns, but the scrubs he wore now were so light and lose it was easy to forget he had them on, and it made him periodically self-conscious.

"It's about time you had that damn tube taken out," Rodney said. He manipulated the wheels of the chair until he was inches from John's bedside. "Made you look like some kind of... _cyborg_ or something."

John scrunched his forehead in a mock look of hurt. "Hey, what happened to the tube club?"

"It disbanded when the majority of the members had whatever tubes stuck in them removed. Welcome to the new club of the tube-free semi-invalids." Rodney's eyes darted over John in careful scrutiny. "You look better, by the way. More... well... lively, I guess."

John lifted both eyebrows. "Lively?"

"Yes, lively, as in 'less like a corpse'..." Rodney winced. "Sorry. I didn't mean it like that."

John lifted his hand off his lap, palm out. "It's cool, I know what you mean. I'll take any improvement, even the less than impressive ones." Now it was John doing the scrutinizing once over at Rodney. "You're not all that pale anymore."

Rodney straightened as much as his still-healing body would let him and smiled smugly. "Jealous? I had my weigh-in this morning. According to Carson, I weigh eight pounds heavier than you."

The twinge of longing for normal clothes was a pin prick next to the spear prick longing for a little weight gain. It bothered him in a small but sometimes depressing way when his ribs felt like they were digging into his own arms though his arms were barely touching his sides. John looked away at the loose thread of the blanket he was trying to entwine around his fingers. "Good for you," and he meant it.

The deeper truth didn't get by Rodney, who quickly sobered. "Hey, you're off the tube and'll be back on solids before you know it. You'll get back to your old weight in no time, and chances are I'll still be a couple of pounds heavier."

"Muscle weighs more than fat," John pointed out.

Rodney nodded and twisted his lips in a small grimace. "Which explains why you always end up heavier than you look when I have to drag your skinny rear-end to safety. Okay, then, until you get muscle back I'll probably still be several pounds heavier. Unlike you, I am an avid fan of snacking between meals, and proudly admit that. Follow my lead and you'll have padding within days. Right now the only reason you weigh anything is because of bones and organs. Or at least that's my theory. Carson hasn't exactly disputed it..."

John allowed himself a tiny smile. "You're probably right." It was hard to admit, but there wasn't much John could do about his current physical state except what he was doing now – resting and eating. Like Rodney said, it was going to take time, so John would give it time. In the mean time he would just have to avoid mirrors and other reflective surfaces.

"So what've you been up to today, McKay?" John asked for a change of subject. The self-consciousness was minimal but it was still there.

Rodney shrugged. "Sleeping, eating, tweeking less vital projects, working out a few theories – busy work."

"Sounds like fun."

"Only for me."

"What about Teyla and Ronon, what've they been up to?"

Rodney smiled, again smugly. "Ask them when they get here."

As though having said the magic words, Teyla and Ronon walked into the infirmary with Teyla pushing a wheelchair with several blankets piled in the seat. She was dressed in one of her long-sleeved shirts a myriad splash of dark colors, a large brush skirt, and her long coat that put more padding on her body then there actually was. Ronon was dressed in his usual leathers, shirt, and long coat also giving him the extra size his body was lacking. Yet to John, the big man was still a big man even with the way his collar-bones pressed against the skin.

Carson materialized from an adjoining room. "You lot are a wee bit early," he said. "But that's fine."

John looked from Ronon and Teyla to Carson and Rodney. "What's up?"

"A wee bit of a celebration in honor of your continuing improvement toward health," Carson said. "Your team have been insisting that you need to get out for a while, and I agree you could probably do with a change of scenery and some fresh air. But not for too long and not to the point where you end up back here passed out in exhaustion. Rodney, you'll need to get out of the way."

McKay wheeled himself away from the bed to let Teyla push the chair in close. Ronon limped after and joined Carson in helping John to sit up. Ronon held him upright by the shoulders as Carson pulled his legs out from under the blanket to hang over the edge of the bed. Meanwhile, Teyla laid out one of the blankets over the chair. With Ronon on one side and Carson on the other, John slid from the bed onto trembling legs, and shuffled around to be lowered into the chair on top of the blanket. Teyla pulled the two halves of the blanket around John, then covered him with two more. John looked down at himself and smiled. He looked like a potato with a head, but he was warm. That was the problem with having no fat to pad the bones; it was always so damn cold.

"Anyone of you starts to tire," Carson warned, "you head back."

"Yes mother," Rodney muttered.

"Stow it with the cheek, Rodney," Carson said, and gave his chair a little shove to send him on his way. Rodney headed out first, followed by Teyla, and John being pushed by Ronon. They were quiet as they walked and wheeled down the clean, metallic corridors, passed bubbling pillars and the living plants that had replaced the dead ones. Rodney led the way to a less populated sector of the city, then through stain-glassed doors onto a wide balcony. It was noon, bright and cloudless outside, and warm including the breezes that ruffled John's hair. John squinted at the luster of sliver-white light flashing off the crystal blue water.

They were all silent, all pensive, and all neutral in their expressions because of it. Over the past several days since waking up free from withdrawal, John had been remembering some things – or at least trying to. The memories were so vague he wanted to pass them off as dreams, except he knew, with a certainty that made his gut churn, that they hadn't been dreams. They had been real, and violent... very violent, with so much blood and pain. Faces he didn't know stared at him wide-eyed and mad. One face he did know, spitting a gob of blood on the ground. John looked up at Ronon's bruise-free face. He'd asked Ronon once already what the image meant, and Ronon replied that it didn't matter, not any more.

Ronon was right, it didn't matter in the long run. Too bad his brain couldn't take the hint and shove the images away back into obscurity where they belonged. But... Demons and skeletons in closets and such. Peace of mind didn't come that easily. Long sessions with Heightmeyer were already in the works. Individual sessions for now (John had endured his yesterday) then group sessions when John was freed from the infirmary.

"I don't remember a lot of what happened," Rodney said. The sudden interruption in the silence made John flinch. He looked over at Rodney, who was staring out at the horizon, thoughtful but uneasy, even a little lost.

McKay pulled his eyes from the horizon to switch his gaze to each team member. "Bits and pieces, and nothing pleasant, but... Is that a good thing?"

John squirmed deeper into the blankets. "It's a coping mechanism. You're brain's just trying to protect itself."

Rodney snorted caustically. "Let Kate handle the psychological babble. I'd prefer not to remember but keep trying to. What the hell is up with that? I don't want to remember." His voice was rising toward hysterical. "Why do we have to remember? Why is forgetting considered to be so damn unhealthy?"

"Because," Teyla said, her arms crossed tight across her chest as though she were cold, "it is never good to forget. Forgetting is like lying to ourselves. We learn from our experiences. We would learn nothing if we were to forget, and all our striving will have been in vain."

Rodney scowled. "I don't care. It's messed up. And I'm pretty sure I'm not alone in the boat on this one. You guys can't remember clearly either." He looked pointedly at John.

John looked away, back to the ocean, then down at his lap. He was with Rodney on the wanting to forget part. Trying to remember hurt, sometimes, and the more that was remembered, the stronger the ache like a weight slowly crushing his chest. Too much pain, too much weariness, too much sorrow; all too much. But Teyla was also right – it was wrong to forget, whether they learned or gained something from it all or not.

There was only one constant to the memories, so constant it could almost be recalled with perfect clarity. The memories would rush by in a surreal semblance of order, and always return to the team. If John was taken, he was brought back to his team. If he escaped, he found his team. The memories cycled, starting at his team and ending at them – sometimes one of them, mostly all of them. Like a two way street where passing another car was inevitable, he always came back to them, and they always came back to him.

It made John smile. "I remember we were never alone," he said. "Kind of like now."

Teyla arched an eyebrow, Rodney looked at John sagely, and Ronon shifted.

Teyla was the first to smile back. "Yes... At least we were never alone."

Rodney settled more comfortably into his chair. "Now that I do remember."

John felt Ronon's hand clasp his shoulder through the blankets.

It was a small positive, like a single star in the darkness; too bright to be missed.

SGA

Carson looked up from the laptop on his desk to see Elizabeth leaning against the door frame with her arms folded.

"How are they, Carson?" she asked.

Carson leaned a little to the side in order to peer out the large window that gave him an almost unobstructed view of his infirmary. John was back in his bed, Rodney in his chair, and Teyla and Ronon sitting on the edge of the bed to John's left. They were talking, and on occasion someone would say something that would get the others to smile.

Carson looked back at Elizabeth and grinned. "I think they'll be fine."

Elizabeth smiled back. She had probably guessed as much already. It was still nice to hear, though.

The end

A/N: Thanks be to all who reviewed. It took me forever to get this story done, and it makes me practically giddy to see it had been enjoyed so much.


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